


watch out, love bites

by heyitsbabz



Series: Before and After the mountain [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt’s Love Language is Acts of Service, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, but yikes!, geralt i’m looking at you too, jaskier’s on going relationship w being a bisexual disaster, no beta we die like renfri, shitty parents, slow burn babey, yen is a good bro sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27538150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsbabz/pseuds/heyitsbabz
Summary: They were considered inseparable to most people.It was a tale almost as old as their friendship: wherever the bard would show up, the White Wolf was sure to follow closely behind.Or: little vignettes of Jaskier and Geralt’s lives before the mountain.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Before and After the mountain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038171
Comments: 42
Kudos: 177





	watch out, love bites

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this instead of studying for my finals ayooo! 
> 
> These snippets just came to my head and held me at gunpoint until I wrote them. There’s references to both the books and the games and honestly, I’m proud of this one.
> 
> I hope you like it, too!

They were considered inseparable to most people. 

It was a tale almost as old as their friendship: wherever the bard would show up, the White Wolf was sure to follow closely behind. 

Jaskier sang of Geralt’s heroics and adventures, and Geralt watched from his hidden corner, a small, barely there smile on his lips when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking. 

Call it whatever you like, fate, destiny—the fact was Geralt didn’t have to stay with Jaskier. The bard had promised to change the public’s tune about him, and he had, quite well if he were to be honest. There’s no reason for Geralt to stick around anymore; he could easily disappear, slip off into the night like a shadow born from nightmares, but he didn’t. He stayed, and he protected and in turn, Jaskier continued singing his praises, valuing their friendship like the most precious of jewels.

That had to mean something, right?

—

The first time Jaskier found Geralt himself after he’d left him to be with his new love of the week, he expected it to be harder. 

Though, realistically, all Jaskier had to really do was ask people if they’d seen a white haired witcher recently and then have them point in the general direction he had gone in, disgust and insults thrown aside. Leave it to Geralt to move quicker, trying to push a two days ride into one and making the entire tracking of him feel more like an eternity instead of two weeks.

When he found him though, he heard him speaking calmly to Roach, a soft, soothing baritone meant for the horses ears, and Jaskier bit back his coo at the sweetness of it. The entire monologue he’d prepared and memorized to scold Geralt with vanished, leaving behind only a large amount of fondness.

“Yeah, there’s more than one drowner out here,” Geralt told her as he brushed out her mane. She snorted as if to reply, blowing some of Geralt’s hair with it. “I know. The town's mayor isn’t the brightest, I’ll admit.” 

Roach stomped one of her hooves when Geralt’s brush snagged. “Sorry, girl. I have to get the leaves out or—”

“Geralt!” Jaskier called from his spot. The witcher turned a glare onto him, and Jaskier wondered if he had heard him coming or not. “What a surprise finding you in this enchanting, ah, forest.” 

“Bard.” 

“Oh, no need for such formality,” Jaskier waved him off, walking closer without fear. “Jaskier will do. You know that’s my name, right?”

Geralt stared at him incredulously, mouth firmly shut now compared to when he was talking to his horse. Jaskier wouldn’t let him get out of that, the casual endearments just about rolling off his tongue. 

“ _Right_?” Jaskier repeated, raising an eyebrow. Geralt’s brow twitched, the annoyance with him always so obvious. Jaskier grinned. “I’m kidding, Geralt. Don’t be so tetchy, I searched all over for you.”

“Why?” Geralt said, removing the brush from Roach’s mane and patting her neck gently. She huffed again, trying to move closer to a tree, her hooves crunching on dead leaves.

“Because we travel together, of course,” Jaskier said cheerily, then pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You move too quickly for my poor, poor human legs. You owe me ten times over, witcher. I’ll be feeling this for days.” 

Geralt’s face twisted up at that, and he turned away from him to focus on Roach again. He still wouldn’t speak out loud to her. 

“Were you talking to Roach just then?” Jaskier asked, already knowing the answer. Just because Geralt didn’t know what being polite meant didn’t mean Jaskier would follow his example.

Geralt hummed, eyes softening as he looked at her. “Yes.” 

There’s only a hint of reluctance when he admitted it, the earnestness of it shining over it. Jaskier wasn’t blind to Geralt’s adoration of his horse, in fact he’d argue that given the choice to save him or Roach, he’d choose Roach. Jaskier wouldn’t even have the heart to blame him either! 

“Well, no need to be so shy about it. After all, she _is_ the best girl, aren’t you, sweet thing?” Jaskier walked closer to her as he dropped his voice to a soft murmur, knowing Geralt’s witcher hearing could pick up on it. 

“Don’t touch—”

“—Roach, yes, yes, I know,” Jaskier batted Geralt’s hand away and reached into his own pack. Given that he had to carry both his lute and this, his back was aching. “I got her a treat. Yes, Roachie, a _treat_. You’ll love it, just wait!” 

Geralt stared blankly. Jaskier dropped the bag onto the ground and crouched to rummage through it while Geralt seemingly tried to process what was happening. Roach, to her credit, was still more fascinated in the tree, hyper fixated on it even while Jaskier talked to her. 

“Aha! Here it is,” Jaskier said, pulling out an apple. “Hey, Roach. _Roach_. Oh, she’s really quite focused, isn’t she? How commendable, darling.” 

Geralt chuckled at that, then turned his head away slightly to obscure Jaskier’s view of him. Jaskier’s casual conversations constantly broke barriers with him and his silences, so it’s not all that surprising to hear him laugh. What really caught his eye was that it’s the first time Jaskier could see him do it in pure daylight. It strikes him dumb for a second, the short look of joy on Geralt’s usually scowl adorned face a charming sight since the witcher typically never looked him straight on when he did laugh, either riding on Roach out of Jaskier’s sight or with his back turned. During their camp nights, Geralt would smile and chuckle of course, but they usually sat across from each other and the fire’s flames only illuminated so much for Jaskier’s human sight. 

Geralt patted Roach’s neck, getting her attention immediately. He inclined his head towards Jaskier’s outstretched hand holding the apple towards her, almost as if it’s an approval. If he noticed Geralt’s surprise at the fact he knew how to feed a horse, Jaskier didn’t say anything; growing up in Lettenhove, he’d had many horses, all of whom he groomed himself too, thanks to his family’s stableman showing him how. It became something akin to therapeutic for him at the end.

Roach took the apple, the loud crunching almost drowning out Geralt’s second chuckle in five minutes. There isn’t any description that can even come close to describing the rough, throaty sound of it, of the way it wrapped around Jaskier’s own throat like a hand and made him want to gasp at how utterly sublime it sounded coming from Geralt’s lips. He’d let that sound destroy him, if it could do such a thing, and he’d happily let it just to continuously hear it.

Geralt should be happy more often. 

“Well,” Jaskier started, clearing his throat to get Geralt’s attention to leave Roach and shake himself out of his own thoughts. “Where are we headed?”

Geralt studied him for a moment, then with one last caress to Roach’s neck said, “Novigrad.” 

—

Jaskier had gone off to get them some much needed supplies. Some food that wouldn’t go bad in a few days time, herbs for Geralt’s potions, and if something particularly caught his eye, perhaps a new ring. 

Most murmured about how exactly a bard so bedazzled and unmarred could possibly be travelling with a witcher, a mutant more so a beast than a man, and Jaskier scoffed each time. Geralt would never let harm come to him and to think of witchers as _beasts_ when they were more intelligent than the idiot townspeople who said this shite always gave Jaskier a good knowing chuckle.

It’s the truth, too; witchers have knowledge upon knowledge on monsters of all kinds. Geralt, for all his eagerness to be as stingy with details after his hunts, didn’t even _try_ to curb his enthusiasm when they were sitting by a fire, and Jaskier offhandedly asked him about _anything_. A striga, a higher vampire, a selkiemore, a cockatrice, a kikimore, Jaskier could name them all at this point, including all the subcategories of some monster species. Geralt wasn’t one to keep him in the dark when it came to educating him, always choosing to share his wisdom when he could, and Jaskier gave him the same courtesy. 

A give and take.

That isn’t to say that Jaskier always took his musings to heart. It still annoyed him to no end when Jaskier’s songs contained false facts, but to each their own. Geralt could live with it. 

Geralt may not have gotten the same education as Jaskier had, but he was one of the smartest people Jaskier knew. If Geralt ever took on an apprentice, he’d make for a fine instructor. Of course, that wouldn’t _happen_ since the making of witchers has long since ended, but if he ever ran across someone who needed information, it would be Destiny pushing Geralt in that direction. 

Jaskier found the witcher in question heading in the direction of a man who perked up slightly at the sight of him. His sword likely gave away who exactly he was.

“Were you the one who posted about the griffin?” 

“A witcher, then?” The man asked. Jaskier watched Geralt look over his shoulder at his sword, then back at the man with an eyebrow raised. Jaskier couldn’t see it, but he _knew_. “Right. Well, aye, I posted it. The fucking thing has been eating my goats.” 

“I can take care of it for a price.” Geralt said. “150 orens.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Your name?” 

“Geralt.” 

“Geralt who?” 

Geralt stepped closer, trying to be intimidating and crossed his arms. “Of fucking Rivia. I take half up front and half when the job is done.”

Jaskier couldn’t pay attention to the rest of the conversation, his laughter drowning it out.

—

“What was that?” Jaskier demanded, his fingers stilling on the rhythm he’d created. “Repeat it, louder this time. I want to hear you clearly before I smash your face in.” 

One of the drunk men had the audacity to _laugh_. “The witcher’s whore is getting offended on his behalf now?” 

“Such a pretty young thing, too,” the one next to him slurs. “The witcher won’t fuck you as good as I would. How’s about you come here and I can show you?” 

“I don’t see no witcher,” another bellowed over the second man, causing a chorus of laughter. “Bunch of fucked up, filthy, no good—”

Right, that’s enough of that.

Jaskier had already shifted his legs into the best position to hit someone roughly—he’d learned this one before Geralt, even—and threw a punch with as much force as he could muster behind it at the person nearest to him. He kept a firm grip on his lute, not wanting to lose balance himself and very pointedly ignored the pain that blossomed on his knuckles.

The man stumbled clumsily, hitting a chair and knocking it to the side, then fell right to the ground with a pained yelp of surprise. It’s the most undignified tumble Jaskier’s ever seen and the tavern was silent as it happened, all heads turned and watching in quiet horror before chaos ensued. 

Jaskier heaved a breath, tossed his lute so that it rested on his back, the strap of it coming around his chest and prepared himself to hit someone else. It’s a good outlet, he thought, to get his anger out; not his usual way, mind, but as he pulled his hand back and saw blood he couldn’t help the vicious smile that overtook his face. 

Someone grabbed him by his doublet, pulling him backward, and Jaskier growled under his breath, something that’s so uniquely _Geralt_ that he’ll be thinking about it all night once he made it out of this. He sent a single thought out for his lute, hoping that if anything it’ll make it out of this unharmed, too. He threw his head back, hearing the crunch of a nose and the scream of pain as he’s let go and then—

Well, then he’s got a knife at his throat. 

All things considered, dying because he’d been defending Geralt while he hunted isn’t the worst way to go.

So, he tipped his chin up, eyeing the shaking blade pointed at his throat suspiciously, then smirked. “Do it.” 

“You, what?” the man spluttered, and Jaskier hadn’t noticed how quiet it had gotten again, not really, but he could hear the sharp intake of breath from the barmaid, bless her. 

“Do it, you fucking coward. You wouldn’t dare it,” Jaskier taunted, eyebrow raising with the challenge. “You’re too scared. Look at you shaking like a leaf, poor sod.” 

“Scared of what? _You_? I’ve got a knife on you, boy.” As if to make a point, he leveled it against Jaskier’s chin, not hard enough to draw any blood.

Jaskier snarled, refusing to break his gaze. “Of the witcher that will gut you piece by bloody piece once he finds out that you’ve harmed his bard. He _will_ find out, no matter where you hide my body, I promise you that. And when he comes for you,” Jaskier leaned forward, pressing against the knife just begging to cut his skin. “You will die _begging_ for your worthless life. The White Wolf will not grant you mercy, drunkard.” 

And the silence is a paradox to the feral smile on Jaskier’s lips when the knife wavered. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s throaty voice is disapproving, almost reprimanding. “Enough.”

Jaskier tilted his head, mindful of the knife. “Ah. Hello, Geralt. Lovely of you to join us.” he took a chance and moved his hand to the man’s wrist, lowering it and the blade from his face. It goes easily. “Care to explain what happened, hm? My witcher surely would like to know why you had a knife to my throat.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that, but waited. 

“Nothing,” the man stuttered, turning to Geralt. Geralt, whose arms were crossed, whose hair likely contained the blood of a werewolf, whose armor glistened with it, silver sword strapped to his back. “Nothing, master witcher. A misunderstanding.”

Geralt hummed, not buying it, his gaze still suspicious and swimming with uncertainty. His nostrils flared when Jaskier clapped his hands, bloody knuckles on full display.

“Right, well, thank you for being such a charming audience, save the whole bit at the end there,” Jaskier announced, twirling his fingers around the tavern in explanation. “But I’ll be taking my leave. Enjoy the rest of your night, good folk!”

Geralt’s grabbing his forearm as soon as he’s done his dramatic bow and dragging him away before he can even think of going to grab himself an ale for the shitshow he’d just endured. His pay could wait until the morning, the barmaid told him she’d collect the coins tossed at him while he sang so he wouldn’t have to worry about having to gather them up while he performed. Jaskier had been skeptical at first, but she was just a lovely lady, really, and now after that whole ordeal, Jaskier appreciated it more. She could slip herself some, and he wouldn’t even mind it.

“Bunch of fucking fools.” Jaskier muttered to himself as they walked through their room door. 

“What happened?” Geralt asked. It’s more of a demand, his voice growling more than usual, likely the after effects of whatever potion he had used to take down the werewolf.

“How was your hunt?” Jaskier deflected, setting his lute down by the window. He walked over to the bed, unlacing his doublet on the way. Hopefully it wasn’t ripped beyond repair. “Did it go well then? Did you get our promised coin? You’re back early, so you must have. Probably for the best, I appreciated your impeccable timing, but I always do. You’re a dramatic at heart, I think, and I—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cut him off and reached for his hand. “ _What. Happened._ ”

It’s not the first time Jaskier had started a fight in Geralt’s company. Far be it for him to let people insult him or insult his friends—but it _is_ the first time Jaskier fought without Geralt being there. He acted as his shield most fights, the townsfolk too scared to do anything drastic lest they bring upon them the wrath of a Witcher. Rightfully so; Geralt protected Jaskier, he wouldn’t let anything happen to him. They’ve only been travelling together for the better part of a year, excluding the winter seasons where Geralt had left him at Oxenfurt, but Jaskier is positive that he knew his friends intentions. 

“Well, nothing out of the ordinary, I _swear_ it.” Jaskier said. Geralt raised an eyebrow, inquiring, urging for him to talk for once in his life. “You know how I get, Geralt! If someone insults me, I bite back twice as hard. It’s my gods forsaken fatal flaw,” he lifted a hand to stop Geralt’s annoyed growl. “And before you say it, yes, maybe it did almost kill me today, but I don’t regret it. They were _fools_ , the lot of them.”

“You keep saying,” Geralt sighed, letting go of Jaskier’s hand in favour of going over to his pack. “You need a weapon. The number of threats on your life is ridiculous.” 

“A weapon?” Jaskier laughed. The idea of him swinging a sword did have its merits. “My words are my weapon, darling witcher. I stopped my death by allowing my tongue to be persuasively threatening.” Jaskier tilted his head. “Oh, that’s quite good, isn’t it? I should write a song about—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, rounding on him again and kneeled down in front of him, reaching for his injured hand. “This isn’t something to joke about.” 

Jaskier attempted to pull his hand away to no avail. “I am serious, thank you very much. Now what in the gods’ names are you doing? _You’re_ the one who’s hurt!” 

“I heal quicker,” Geralt snapped, dabbing some sort of medicine on his cut knuckles, already swelling up with bruises. Right, Geralt had _Swallow_ to help him. Or maybe it was _Tawny Owl_ , he didn’t remember; he’d ask Geralt again another time. Jaskier winced, biting his tongue on a whine. “Your self preservation instincts are lacking. There were ten of them for one of you.” 

“Given no other option, I would have smashed my lute over their heads.” 

“ _Jaskier._ ” 

“What do you want me to say, Geralt? That I’m sorry?” Jaskier said capriciously, his voice raising. “I’m _not_! I’d do it again and again and again, they had no right to say those things about you, and I wasn’t going to stand for it!” 

Geralt stopped. There’s a furrow forming in his brow, and Jaskier could practically hear his self deprecating thoughts racing. Jaskier knew him better than the witcher would ever admit to anyone, so he wouldn’t stay silent while the other man stewed in his self loathing. 

“I don’t regret it.” Jaskier said again, less aggressively. Geralt’s thumb brushed along his cleaned knuckles, soft as a feather and it struck him how gentle a witcher can be. All the rumours about them were _unfounded_.

“Stop trying to defend my honour.” Geralt finally spoke, words even and slow and trying to articulate his thoughts. 

“No.” Jaskier replied simply.

“I’m serious. I don’t need it.” 

“You speak such bullshit sometimes, Geralt, honestly,” Jaskier scoffed with a shake of his head. “When I met you, you couldn’t even walk anywhere without someone hurling insults at you. Or rocks. Or potatoes, ha, don’t look at me like that, that did happen that one time before _Toss A Coin_ reached that small town outside Temeria. Besides, I’ve been defending you since we met, if you recall!”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Geralt said hotly, yellow eyes glaring up at him. His irises are thin as slits, his unease and anger clear. “I don’t care what they say about me. Witchers don’t exactly have a good reputation to begin with.”

“Neither do elves and look how they turned out! No, Geralt. Their prejudices can fuck off because I won’t let that happen to you!” Jaskier snapped back. “I won’t stand for it and neither should you. You’re _good_. You help people and I don’t understand why nobody sees that! How do you expect to get jobs when no one trusts you, hm?” 

Geralt’s stunned silence was answer enough. 

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t understand you, bard,” Geralt busied himself with bandaging Jaskier’s hand, avoiding his eyes now. “Or your fascination with changing the public's opinion on witchers.” 

“You don’t need to understand my motives to know that I care for you,” Jaskier said, matter-of-fact, no room for arguments in his tone. “I care what’ll happen to you when we separate again. Is that so wrong? That you have a friend who cares?” 

Geralt’s eyes were bright, letting out a low hum as he dropped his hand. He’s still covered in blood and other disgusting things that Jaskier doesn’t even want to acknowledge in fear of gagging in earnest, like what was that? Werewolf organs? Anyway, his point was Geralt still looked good. Healthier than his deathly pale complexion allowed. It’s unfair how Geralt could pull him into his orbit when he didn’t care _how_ he appeared, but Jaskier _wanted_ , and he knew he couldn’t have, so he banished it out of his mind instead. 

“Yes,” Geralt replied. “Yes, it’s wrong.” 

Jaskier, feeling brave and idiotic, brushed a bloodied piece of silver hair out of Geralt’s face. “What a shit mentality you have, my friend. We’ll have to work on that.”

—

It came out of nowhere.

One moment Jaskier kept cajoling Geralt about how much easier and quicker travelling would be if they got him a horse and the next Geralt was dismounting Roach. 

Jaskier’s steps falter, worried he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Geralt never struck him as someone who would take offense to something like this, especially when it involved horses. No, he dealt with Jaskier’s complaining like a priest listening to people’s confessions, only without the whole absolving bit. Jaskier usually got the equivalent of a _get over it_ grunt from his friend, but he never complained about that.

Geralt went over to his pack, rummaged through it for all of ten seconds—Jaskier was counting with bated breath—then tossed whatever he’d been looking for at Jaskier. 

“Wha—” Jaskier barely managed to catch it, the object almost slipping through his fingers. He looked down at it, his hand wrapped around a leather sheath. “Geralt?” 

“It’s. For you,” Geralt said, stunted but no less confusing than if it wasn’t. “You need it.” 

Jaskier doesn’t voice his question of what, exactly, he needed; it’s pretty clear. 

His fingers unwrap the dagger carefully, his breath catching in his throat when he took in the intricate details carved into the hilt of it—the design twirled together, spinning in a way that made it seem like two twin flames wrapped together and rising until they reached the middle of the hilt, where a singular blue jewel rested. It was beautiful, Jaskier’s eyes clouding over before he blinked it back. 

“You got me a gift?” Jaskier shifted the dagger from one hand to another, testing out the weight of it. It was a little sturdier than his lute, but he’d manage if he ever had to use it. 

“I told you I would get you one.” Geralt's rough voice explained. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d think the man was _nervous_. 

“No, you did not. I would remember such sweet words leaving your mouth. You said, and I remember this with utmost certainty, that I _need_ one,” Jaskier’s fingers grazed the jewel adorning it. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks, threatening to make him burst with adoration. “Not that you’d _get_ me one.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt's exasperation was so obviously tinged with fondness, the carefully crafted mask of indifference almost cracking in its stead.

“You got me a gift,” Jaskier repeated, a grin spreading wide on his newly flushed face. His cheeks were almost hurting with it, and he almost hugged Geralt for the kindness of it. How much did this _cost_ him? Jaskier won’t ask, not wanting to sour the soft expression on Geralt’s face, but he would make it up to him. 

“Call it whatever you want,” Geralt said with a huff. “You need to learn how to use it.”

“You’ll teach me,” Jaskier stepped closer, his fingers gripping the hilt of the dagger as if it would disappear. “Geralt. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

“I will, and you won’t stop me!” Jaskier said happily. “It’s _beautiful_. Melitele blessed this weapon Herself with how simply striking it is. Thank you. I shan’t forget this.” 

Geralt sighed, then turned away to mount Roach again. Jaskier wouldn’t pester him, knowing how he was unused to kindness being directed at him, but he saw the pleased look Geralt attempted to hide from him. 

His heart, the damned thing, wouldn’t allow him to rest after that, not for a long time.

—

The villagers managed to chase them out. It’s rather dull, really, and Jaskier expected it to be much worse; of course some places still held their prejudices and hatred for people who are _different_ firmly in place, but Jaskier always fought to keep them above water, so to speak.

Now, why Geralt let them chase them out before they paid them this time instead of letting Jaskier do his thing, well, he supposed he’d have to find out. 

Jaskier laughed as they walked away, Geralt moving quickly as the last sounds of yelling disappeared like the villagers silhouettes to Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt hadn’t so much as glanced his way as he led Roach forward by her reins, his back tense and his jaw set in clear frustration. 

Clear to Jaskier, anyway. Anyone else might have thought Geralt was about to go on a murder spree, no doubt glaring ahead with those unnatural eyes of his. Jaskier adored them, found a warmth in them that made him feel understood and _seen_ , but Geralt thought otherwise. 

Jaskier’s still chuckling when Geralt finally snapped and whirled on him, stalking up to him as if Jaskier were his prey. 

“Why are you laughing?” he demanded, looking every bit the wild wolf resting on his medallion. “I just drove us out of another village, and _you’re laughing_.” 

“Because their idiocy—”

“They aren’t idiots for not wanting to provide shelter to a monster!” 

Jaskier sobered up immediately, any traces of humour falling away like a facade he’d created in order to attract someone. Standing in front of him, his teeth bared and his eyes hardened, Jaskier should have been afraid. His friend was visibly angry, some would argue unstable due to his witcher abilities and yet Jaskier felt none of that. 

He felt a horrified understanding of what exactly was going on in Geralt’s head. 

“You? A monster? Please,” Jaskier tried for levity, his voice light. “You took care of their, what was it, a wyvern this time? No matter, _you_ took care of it for them. They’re idiots who’ve done you a disservice, my friend, but make no mistake, this will be a perfect tale to sing about. Oh, I can already hear the jabs at the—”

Geralt doesn’t let him finish, clenching his fists together as if to stop himself from throttling him. “Don’t you _get_ it? They would have done much worse to get me out if I didn’t leave. The White Wolf moniker means nothing when the Butche—”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said icily. “Don’t say that. You are not the person they make you out to be.”

“Your naivety is unbecoming, bard,” Geralt smiled, a cruel thing meant to show off his sharp, inhuman canines. “They’re all true. The stories you heard of me, before. There are things I’ve done—”

“Yeah, _bullshit_. You did everything out of self defence,” Jaskier didn’t let Geralt’s scoff deter him. “You think I don’t know you, Geralt? Know how much you care about all things? You aren’t as observant as I thought, dear.” 

Geralt had never spoken to him about Blaviken, and Jaskier never asked. The subject was sore and outdated, a story twisted so horrendously that even the man who it revolved around seemed to think it true.

Jaskier knew Geralt; he didn’t need Geralt’s confirmation that the massacre was done in self defence because Jaskier already knew that. How could a man who loved the simple, little things in life do anything but? He’d watched Geralt contently hum when he sat in a particularly dry patch of grass once it stopped raining, he’d seen him eyeing yellow flowers with a small smile on his face when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking, how he’s so besotted with Roach that he goes above and beyond to keep her groomed and fresh and all the grace and beauty that she was.

Jaskier didn’t need Geralt to tell him how word of mouth so cruelly defined Geralt’s life the last few decades under false accusations—he knew. He _knew_. He’d already washed away half the tainted mark on him, and he’d continue to do so until Geralt saw himself as a saviour instead of a monster. 

Geralt’s silence made Jaskier step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. The witcher avoided his eyes. “You’re not a monster, Geralt. You have to know that. You’re nothing like them. You hunt them, yes, and I will grant you that your manners border on savage just as well as your foul beasties, but I know the kind of man you are.

“You don’t hunt creatures that show intelligence, that try to reason with you and share their side of the story. You always try to go for a quick kill when you do fight, so that even the monsters don’t suffer before their death. You go out of your way to keep _me_ safe and out of harm's reach when I follow you. Geralt,” Jaskier said, cornflower blue meeting bright amber. “You’re not a monster.” 

Geralt’s mouth curled downward, but his eyes stayed the same, the neutrality in them meant to show just how emotionless he was. Jaskier wasn’t buying into it, oh no.

“You’re not. Far from it. I won’t hear otherwise.” he said, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder for comfort before dropping his arm back down and nodding toward the path in front of them. “Shall we?” 

Wordlessly, Geralt turned and walked.

—

Jaskier was in the middle of composing a song, making up verses about a siren falling in love and giving up their lifestyle, their way of being, their _voice_ , to be with their human lover, but unbeknownst to the siren, the human was doing the same. 

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt said, his eyes never leaving the fire.

One good thing about travelling with a witcher was that, no matter what, he’d always have a fire to keep him warm. Thanks to those witcher signs of Geralt’s, Jaskier never had to worry about being cold at night. When they separate during the winter or when they need to go in different directions, Jaskier had a harder time of living with this simple luxury. Sometimes the branches don’t want to light up, too wet or not dry enough, so he goes cold _and_ hungry, unable to catch anything to cook either. 

“Creative liberty, dear witcher,” Jaskier said easily, still strumming his lute in a progression of chords he thought would fit the line. “Now shush so that I can focus.”

He didn’t have to look at Geralt to see his eye roll.

“ _Before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea,”_ Jaskier sang. “ _Imagine being loved by me_ —no, that’s shit.”

“It is,” Geralt agreed. Jaskier almost broke his neck with the speed in which he looked at him.

“You’re not supposed to _agree_ with me, you brute,” Jaskier said eventually, once Geralt showed no interest in speaking again. “Or if you do, give me some constructive criticism at the very least! What didn’t you like about it?”

Geralt’s eyes found his, their reflective nature thanks to the campfire making him look almost haunting. “The inaccuracies, for one.”

“I already explained creative—”

“And you’ve inserted yourself into the narrative again. Why?” 

“Oh.” Jaskier paused. “Well. Simple answer is that I want people to remember _me_. Once I’m gone, you know? They’ll want to know who the third person involved is. Anyone who feels the curiosity of finding out will learn of me and I’ll live on.”

“Hm,” Geralt poked at the fire with a spare branch, tossing it in when he’s done. The fire roared to life. “Won’t they know it was you who sang it in the first place?”

“I mean, yes,” Jaskier amended, watching the flames dance and intertwine. “But people are always stealing credit. It’s a rough profession to be in, my friend. Anyone could hear your song and then decide for it to be their own without asking your bloody permission and then all your hard work ends up going down the fucking—”

Geralt chuckled. “Valdo Marx?” 

Jaskier clicked his tongue in distaste and if he were a lesser man would have stomped his foot in visible outrage. “That talentless, incompetent, good for nothing _weasel_ has done it to me twice! It may not seem like much to you, but the fact he’s done it twice, oho, if I end up stabbing a man for one thing, Geralt, it would be this.”

“I bought you a dagger for a reason.”

Jaskier burst out laughing, all the air leaving his lungs as he set his lute aside. “Are you suggesting something?” 

The soft smile on Geralt's face was the only reply he gave. He’s relaxed, Jaskier realized. The usual tension in his shoulders wasn’t there, the hyper alert focus of making sure nothing was preying on them notwithstanding. Their bantering and talking had always been a way for Jaskier to lighten any mood thrown at them, but to have Geralt enjoy it, too? This felt like a first of many.

Which was why he clearly had to ruin it.

“Doesn’t it bother you that I’ll die someday?” 

Geralt kept his gaze securely on the fire again, unable to look at the helplessness in Jaskier’s eyes. He wanted Geralt to feel something—anything—at the prospect of not being with him anymore. That, one day, he’ll never hear him sing, or talk, or walk after him and complain again.

“I could die before you,” Geralt said. “Does that bother you?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaskier said immediately. “And you won’t.”

“We all slip up eventually.” Geralt admitted quietly, as if he didn’t want Jaskier to hear. 

“Not you. Not in my lifetime.” 

“Hm,” Geralt pursed his lips, then looked at him. Jaskier couldn’t read his perfectly blank face, cheekbones made more prominent by the fire. “Everything and everyone dies one way or another, Jas. It’s not a matter of if, but of when. It’s better to just accept it and move on.” 

It’s one of the most honest and raw things Geralt had ever shared with him and it leaves Jaskier dumbfounded. He’s right, of course he’s right; Geralt had seen and lived through losses Jaskier was sure he couldn’t even begin to imagine. But the sting of him accepting _his_ death like it was just a cycle of a long life still hit him with emotions he didn’t want to acknowledge. It felt like he’d somehow lost the bardic tournament and he’d rather never think of that as a possibility. 

“Phew, well, alright then,” Jaskier leaned back to where his bedroll was. “Thank you. For the supernova of emotions you’ve unleashed upon me.” 

Geralt doesn’t reply, but his eyes stay on him, watching his movements carefully. He tilted his head in silent question, wondering where exactly Jaskier’s head was at.

“I’m gonna—sleep, yeah, sleep,” Jaskier said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, where his bedroll was laid out. “Long day of walking tomorrow. Gotta get in my beauty sleep while I can.” 

“What beauty?” Geralt scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. Several strands of grey hair fall onto his forehead and down his face, the flames enveloping his frame like a halo from this angle. 

_He is so—_

Jaskier shook himself out of his thoughts. “Thank you, Geralt.” he wanted to reach out and touch him, to show his sincerity, but he refrained. Instead, he offered a small smile. “Goodnight.” 

It’s only once he laid down and closed his eyes that Geralt murmured a quiet _goodnight_ back.

—

Whenever Geralt went back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, Jaskier always ended up back at Oxenfurt, taking residence there as one of their prestigious professors. 

To have a bard such as himself, one that graduated _summa cum laude_ in the seven liberal arts, one so distinguished and known around the Continent thanks to his brilliant songs and talent alone, well, it made Oxenfurt look good. Parents all over had sent their kids here in the hopes that they would succeed as he had; perhaps not as bards, but as doctors, historians, professors, even archaeologists—all of it was a possibility at the academy. 

And, in any case, Jaskier enjoyed his time teaching. He’d go as far as to say he loved it. Having everyone listen to his words and take note and generally take him _seriously_ had it’s definite perks. 

Not to mention he had Shani here. She may spend most of her time in the Medicine and Herbology faculty, but they often had lunches together, and talked about new findings, and things their students have told them, and it’s _nice_. Even Priscilla guest lectured for his classes sometimes, and Jaskier adores her like a flower adores sunlight. Given the word, Jaskier would probably do anything for her, he’s sure. But she won’t give it; they are the sun and the moon, so close to each other, but living in different worlds despite their same profession. One day, maybe they’d let themselves indulge in one another, but that day wasn’t now, their friendship too dear a thing to destroy. 

Either way, he loved Oxenfurt when he was a student, and he loved it now when he’s a professor, too. It’s only flaw was that it didn't have Geralt. It didn’t have the adventure that Geralt brought into his life, the constant inspiration. Jaskier would take that over the stillness and repetitiveness of this any day, no matter how much he complained about blisters, and feet aches, and wanting to bathe at an inn instead of camp, just to hear Geralt’s annoyed sigh again. 

Jaskier missed him something fierce because whenever he thought about Geralt with his brothers in Kaer Morhen, his chest ached, his entire body freezing up like the snow falling outside his quarters’ window. He missed him and wished that he could go with him, but he knew that that wasn’t an option for someone like him. 

It doesn’t matter. Wishing won’t do him any good. Jaskier was better off at the academy, in _Oxenfurt,_ somewhere he knew like the back of his hand. He wouldn’t exactly call it _home_ , but it’s the closest thing he’ll ever get to one until he did decide to settle down, he supposed. 

Besides, distance makes the heart grow fonder. Jaskier will just have to look forward to finding his witcher in spring.

He belonged here.

 _Where it’s safe_ , Geralt’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. 

—

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined, pulling at the lute strap across his chest. “Will you _please_ tell me what’s bothering you? You’ve been acting strange since we left Ard Skellig. Well, stranger than usual and that’s saying a lot considering your whole—whatever you have going on.”

Geralt grunted.

They’d been visiting the Skellige isles for a contract. Geralt had received word that his friend Crach An Craite needed help with something-or-other, Geralt was always so stingy with the details. It’d been a demon of sorts terrorizing a family friend, and Crach had implored Geralt to help when the druid couldn’t do much against it. 

Geralt had explained to Jaskier that the demon was a Hym—something that feeds off the guilt of others and uses it to torment them, to cause them to injure themselves and go mad in the name of justice. 

Of course, Geralt took care of it as he always did. Jaskier wasn’t surprised, nor was he one to say no to celebrations in honour of the White Wolf himself. If they were to ask him, Jaskier would have many more banquets for Geralt, to show him that he was important, that he mattered, but he also knew Geralt hated the attention. 

Jaskier sang to him in taverns, gestured to him so people knew who exactly they should be tossing their coins to; he loved watching the uncomfortable look in Geralt’s eyes, the one that screamed for Jaskier to make it stop or he’d die with embarrassment. Well, as close to that anyway, Jaskier wasn’t a mind reader. He just enjoyed watching the witcher squirm a little—he always brought the attention back to himself because frankly, he enjoyed being the center of people’s attractions, and Geralt usually got himself new contracts huffing about how Jaskier’s narcissism would be the death of him. It worked in both their favour, Jaskier preening under people’s gazes, and Geralt having a new job to take on. 

Which brought him back to the present moment: he had no idea why Geralt wouldn’t talk to him. 

“I know you don’t like to, but I’d appreciate it if you used your words this time.” Jaskier said, only pouting a little when the silence followed his words. 

The mare Crach had given Geralt stopped walking, stomping her hooves and making Jaskier startle. He watched Geralt climb off of her, petting down her mane and muttering something to her, too low for his human ears to pick up. Well, that’s just rude, really. 

Jaskier let the annoyance drift into his voice as Geralt approached him. “Have you decided to speak, my dear witcher?”

Geralt’s gaze on him—it never left him unusually intimidated, not even when they had first met. Jaskier had known who he was, but that didn’t stop him from becoming his friend; so why did his yellowed gaze make him feel perfectly chastised? 

“Would you have slept with her?” 

“Slept with—what, pray tell, are you talking about, exactly?” Jaskier asked, incredulous. He racked his brain, thinking of everyone he’d spoken to over the last few days and came up blank. 

“Cerys.” Geralt said, crossing his arms. 

Jaskier doesn’t know whether to feel offended at the accusatory tone. Sure, he had slept with most people who breathed his way, but that was no excuse to assume he’d whore himself out with one of Geralt’s friends. His friend's _daughter_ no less!

“Of course not! I do have respect for you and Crach An Craite, I’ll have you know!” Jaskier jabbed a finger into Geralt’s chest plate, probably causing more pain for himself. “Besides, she’s hardly my type, Geralt, really. You should know by now that I crave a certain type of person and that my libido is vastly superior to—”

“Okay. That’s enough.” 

“No, no, now you’ve started it!” 

“And I’m ending it.” 

“Honestly, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed, staring off at the road they abandoned. “My feelings are hurt.”

“Hm,” Geralt went back to the mare, mounting her with ease. “Hazard of travelling with a witcher. Mutations make us emotionless, haven't you heard?”

“Emotionless my _arse_. I can tell what emotion you're feeling just by looking at you.” Jaskier peered up at his friend, an amused smirk on his lips. He started walking beside the horse again, ignoring his blistering feet. He’s had worse.

“Really,” Geralt replied flatly. 

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded, turning his lute forward. He might as well compose while they trekked down to who knows where. He strummed a note, making sure the elven instrument was in tune. “Right _now_ it’s annoyance by the way the top of your eyebrow twitched.” 

Geralt didn’t reply. 

Jaskier grinned. 

“Don’t look so happy, bard,” Geralt tossed a side glance over at him. “We still have to sail back to Novigrad.”

“Oh,” the smile dropped off Jaskier’s face as quickly as it’d come. “I hate sailing.”

—

Geralt told Jaskier not to follow him. 

Usually, depending on what kind of crowd he attracted at the tavern, he listened to Geralt’s warning and sang to earn them some extra coin while Geralt worked on the contract. 

The thing was, Jaskier hasn’t followed Geralt on a hunt in _ages,_ and his song inspiration is starting to take a tumble in the mud. That is to say, his songs were shit. To him, anyway—he had no doubt Geralt would hum his agreement given the opportunity.

So, when he found himself lost in the woods in an attempt to find Geralt and observe his heroics in person, he’s only mildly afraid. It’s not like Jaskier hasn’t travelled without the witcher before; they do it often, separate to do different things and then always find their way back to each other. Point was, Jaskier knew how to navigate and steer himself to safety, but he was here on a mission, and he wouldn’t allow his fear to stop it. 

He had left his lute at the inn, opting to have his hands free. Better to have his dagger in hand and ready than to accidentally swing his elven lute in panic and smash it to bits of tiny wood splinters. 

As he walked, he was careful not to step on any branches. He didn’t need to attract any attention to himself, not when Geralt was hunting whatever monster had plagued this village. Geralt hadn’t told him exactly what the contract entailed and maybe that’s the real reason he’s out here, bitter and a little put off. Usually Jaskier went with him to accept the offers—he normally got people to pay Geralt more money, seeing as he was a master negotiator these days and the townsfolk almost always tried to swindle Geralt out of his hard earned pay every time. 

He’d been inwardly cursing this forest when he heard the unmistakable sound of a fight, screams and growling echoing in the air and making goosebumps rise against Jaskier’s skin. He very logically followed the sound, briskly and carefully going in the direction of it until he saw the figures fighting in the distance.

Geralt had made it very clear when Jaskier had started accompanying him on hunts that he was to stay far, far away. 

Geralt moved in a way that always took Jaskier’s breath away. He was quick and agile and for someone so huge and muscular, his poise and grace as he parried and countered attacks looked almost as though he were practicing steps to an elaborate dance instead of fighting. His sword gleamed silver under the moon, but from Jaskier’s vantage point behind the tree it seemed as though Geralt were fighting the wind more than anything. 

He blocked a hit, jumped out of the way of another. The only way Jaskier could tell he was fighting something was the screeching he could hear that most definitely was _not_ the witcher in plain view. It’s when Geralt cast _Quen_ , protecting himself from an attack and in itself tossing the creature away that it revealed itself.

To Jaskier, it looked like an ordinary woman. Granted, a naked woman with long dark hair, but a woman no less. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but when she got back up, she cracked her neck and leaned forward to attack again, not the least bit deterred. Geralt met her in the middle, sword clashing with the air as she disappeared again, appearing behind him with nails as long as claws.

Geralt hadn’t turned to follow it. 

Jaskier scrambled out from behind the tree, frantically shouting the others' name. 

He got both their attention. 

There was no time for him to run, he knew that. The moon hung high above him, casting an ethereal glow onto the clearing where Geralt had been fighting, but he could almost feel the heat of the sun as he looked up and saw the creature baring its sharp teeth at him. The fire of it extended toward his gut, burning him up as adrenaline filled fingers lifted his dagger, shaking hands preparing him for the worst way to die, maybe, but it didn’t matter—as long as Geralt _survived_. 

The creature came toward him as quick as an arrow being shot in the air, a blur of motion, and Jaskier did the only thing he could to defend himself; he swung his dagger. He missed, the creatures hand grabbing him by the throat and tossing him to the ground roughly. He hit the ground hard, the air getting knocked out of his lungs while a sharp, shooting pain erupted at the side of his head.

Fucking _rocks—_ he wanted to scream, to yell his frustration and pain, but his words were caught in his throat. As he groaned, he vowed to never yell at Geralt after a hunt again; the headache he’ll have after this will be absolutely dreadful, worse than any hangover he’s ever experienced. 

“How interesting,” the creature said, smiling wickedly. “A human following a witcher.”

“Have you not heard of me?” Jaskier tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “Why, I’m Jaskier, bard and—and—”

The trickle of blood that ran down his temple toward his cheek was quick and wet, the feeling of it making Jaskier’s vision swim with black dots. He’s not shy toward blood, he’s shed his fair share of it and cleaned _lots_ of it off Geralt, but he’s never truly been put in a life or death situation, not like this. He forced his hand to clench the dagger, refusing to let it go as the thing’s features twisted into anger before his eyes. 

“I don’t care who you are, _human_ ,” they spat, squeezing tighter along his neck, sniffing the air with a content sigh. “I’ll enjoy every moment of feeding from you.”

Oh, fuck.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled, and Jaskier gasped as if that were his lifeline, lifted his hand and stabbed the dagger into the creature's side.

It screeched in agony again, gnashing it’s sharp teeth threateningly down at Jaskier, but didn’t collapse like Jaskier expected it to. This thing was going to kill him, he thought weakly, and closed his eyes so that he didn’t have to see it anymore. His head throbbed, his temple carrying most of the pain, static noise thrumming in his ears. It’s hand tightened around his neck and the fleeting thought that he’d never be able to sing again had him choking for a final breath, thrashing his feet around him for purchase as adrenaline pumped hotly in his veins.

Only, the hand disappeared as Jaskier accepted the circumstances—Geralt had tackled the thing off of him, ripping the dagger out from its side and using it to stab it. The thing writhed hysterically, making Geralt hit its shoulder instead. 

Jaskier gasped again, coughing for good measure as he moved to his knees and spit out the dirt from his mouth. He rubbed his throat and watched Geralt growl, a loud, menacing sound that reverberated around them and had a shiver running up the bard’s spine. Geralt’s hand moved so quickly Jaskier almost missed the killing blow right to the creature's neck, the dagger slicing it open as smooth as if it were butter.

Jaskier was going to be sick.

Geralt heaved a breath as it struggled to scream again, a sick gurgling sound echoing around them, blood as black as the night running down its neck to its bare chest. 

“Oh.” Jaskier whispered, then turned his head to the side, heaving and retching into the mud, his stomach emptying itself. 

Geralt stumbled off of it, catching Jaskier’s eye. His hand was still clenched around Jaskier’s dagger, the same one Geralt had bought him; it felt fitting somehow, that Geralt had used it now, a silver weapon made for monsters. Maybe Geralt had given him this one deliberately, a special secret that only they would understand. 

Then, as if worried the thing would be able to survive that, Geralt shifted his fingers in the sign for _Igni_ , lighting the monster on fire and watching the flames engulf it before turning back to Jaskier. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier croaked, struggling to stand. Geralt rushed to his side, heaving breaths as he steadied Jaskier up. “Geralt. You’re okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt assured, and Jaskier reached a hand up to his face, not quite believing him. Dark eyes met his, black veins like intricate vines taking over most of his pale face. “Jaskier. What were you thinking?” 

“Save you—from _that_.” 

“Bruxa,” Geralt said softly despite the growling of his voice, circling his free hand around Jaskier’s wrist, but not moving away. “A bruxa.”

“Vampire, of course.” Jaskier laughed a little hysterically, the movement it had on his throat making him wince. He leaned his head on Geralt’s shoulder, his own blood smearing onto his bloodied armour. “Gods. I’ll leave the fighting monsters to you next time. Not for me.” 

“That’s my _job._ ” Geralt flinched at the volume of his own voice, squeezing Jaskier’s wrist. 

He’s listening to his pulse, Jaskier realized. Gods help him. 

“It’s a shit job,” Jaskier mumbled into his shoulder, taking a shuddering breath. “Gods. We’re okay. _Fuck_. I knew you’d get to me in time, I mean, I’d very much hoped so, but _fuck_.” 

Jaskier fell silent, the adrenaline of the moment wearing off and the realization that he really could have died hitting him almost as hard as the bruxa knocking him to the ground. The shaking wracking his body, he expected, but the single sob that left his mouth shocked even him.

Geralt held him there, watching over his shoulder as the fire burned out, leaving behind the charred remains of the bruxa that had so stupidly threatened Jaskier’s life. 

Jaskier half expected Geralt to continue reprimanding him, but the effects of _Cat_ were already strong, and Geralt didn’t need to continue hearing Jaskier’s repeated mantra of them being okay. Geralt knew. He could hear the strong beat of Jaskier’s heart, like a very incessant drum.

They stayed silent.

Together, they breathed.

—

“Thank the gods, Geralt, there you are,” Jaskier ran up to him, his heart just about ready to burst from his rib cage like a bird flying to the sky. “I’ve encountered a slight problem. One that, hypothetically speaking, _may_ derail our plans.”

Geralt huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “What did you do?”

“First of all, I’m offended you would think I would be the one to cause the problem. Secondly—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled as Jaskier bounced nervously on the soles of his feet. “What did you do?” 

“Well,” Jaskier let up, words flowing freely like a dam that’s been broken. “Last time we came here I had a lovely evening, not that you’d recall, but do take my word for it, the entire night had been absolutely magical. It was the thing of courteous ballads, the elaborate ones spinning tales of love at first sight—”

“Did you sleep with someone’s daughter again?” 

“What? No,” Jaskier shook his head, then grinned, colour returning to his face. “Someone’s daughter’s _brother_ , however, yes. She is not very happy nor fond of me, as you can so easily tell.” 

Geralt had a look on his face that said he could, in fact, tell.

Rude. 

“If you would kindly play the part of the big, scary witcher always there to protect me, that would be fantastic,” Jaskier went on, ignoring Geralt’s snort of disbelief. “Just this once! I know you’re a big softie, my dear, but no one else does. Please?” 

“Will they let us stay otherwise?” Geralt asked. Oh, the clever man. Always catching on, even with the barest of information. 

“Seeing as their family owns the inn in this town, I’d say we’re a bit shit out of luck if you don’t.” Jaskier said. 

Geralt sighed. “Worth a shot.” 

“Fantastic! Just threaten them a little bit, you know, to add that extra push of not turning away a witcher or beware his wrath. And before you say it, I know we can just set up camp if this doesn’t work,” Jaskier rambled, turning to lead Geralt in the right direction. “But I would gladly take a bed over the ground any day. And a bath, no offense. We both smell rank, don’t we? It’s a little nauseating even to me, and I’m unfortunately used to your acrid smell. Ah, I’m getting off topic again. The point is, you won’t regret this.” 

“I already do,” Geralt muttered, but when Jaskier glanced back at him he was giving Jaskier that fond smile reserved just for him. 

His heart nearly stopped, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he swallowed. “You needn’t be so drab, Geralt. You already agreed.” 

“Who’s to say they won’t cut your cock off while you sleep?” Geralt challenged, keeping his pace steady behind him. 

“Ridiculous man,” Jaskier laughed, attracting the attention of a merchant nearby. Jaskier waved him away. “You sleep next to me last I checked. Who in their right minds would even attempt such a careless act? Everyone knows a witcher’s hearing is better than a humans, sensitive to every noise.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “They teach that at Oxenfurt?”

“Oh, you have a sense of humour today, I see!” 

“Is that what we’re calling it?” 

“Would you prefer I call it your second personality?” Jaskier stopped in front of the entryway to the inn. “Because I can.” 

Geralt shook his head, the fond smile dropping from his face as he gestured for Jaskier to go in, that thunderous glare replacing it. It’s perfect, chilling enough to actually work. “Lead the way.”

—

Jaskier woke to Geralt’s voice.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said as he shook him, hand gentle on his shoulder. “Wake up.” 

_I’m awake_ , he wanted to say, but all that came out was a pained whine. He sat up, turning around and reaching toward Geralt’s hand still resting on his shoulder. He held it tightly in his own, fingers clasped around his like a vice, unwilling to let go. He hadn’t felt it before, but with the cold wind brushing his face, like the gentlest caress, he could feel his cheeks were wet.

Some nights camping felt almost cathartic, the sounds of nature very easily lulling Jaskier to sleep. As he sat there now, the near silence and calmness of the sound of leaves rustling twisted his stomach up uncomfortably, nausea swirling in his unease. 

“Hey,” Geralt hushed, looking unsure of himself. It’s endearing, the sight of a man like him not knowing what to do. “It’s okay.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Jaskier murmured, wiping his wet cheek with his shoulder. “I’m not a child. I can tell when I’ve had a nightmare, dear wolf.” 

Geralt’s head snapped up. “You were scared. I could—smell it. You kept saying you needed to get away.” 

“Ha,” Jaskier deadpanned, drawing his knees to his chest. He squeezed Geralt’s hand one last time then let him go. “I’m perfectly okay.” 

“You’re still shaking.” 

“Residual dread of having to even _think_ of such horrors,” Jaskier smiled, though it felt wobbly even to him. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” 

Geralt didn’t look convinced. “What was it—” he cut himself off, looking to the side awkwardly. Then, again. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really.” 

Geralt nodded, standing to move away. Stupid man, leaving him to work out this minor inconvenience of inner turmoil on his own. 

“Loss,” Jaskier said. It stopped Geralt’s retreat. “It was about loss.” 

—

After Geralt so idiotically called on the law of surprise, Jaskier was sure nothing in their intertwined lives could get any worse.

He had enlisted Geralt’s help for the evening not realizing that _of course_ Geralt would get involved when things had gone absolutely and horrifically wrong. He’d been the idiot for not seeing that possibility, but he won’t accept any blame for his lapse of judgement. 

But maybe if Jaskier hadn’t invited him, Geralt wouldn’t have stormed off to who knows where and left him alone in the Cintran court. 

Jaskier should have been used to that, given their years and years spent together and apart, but watching Geralt go with no goodbye _hurt_.

He sighed, focusing on his string work, his fingers producing a melody from chords his mind made him pluck on muscle memory alone. This is what he was good at—playing, entertaining, creating. He wasn’t a hunter nor a prophet, he couldn’t have foreseen this happening, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t write the ballad swirling around his head like a storm.

So, he did what he was good at, and he started writing.

—

They get worse. 

Everything in their lives gets so much worse and could be strategically narrowed down to one Yennefer of Vengerberg.

Jaskier wanted to hate her. He wanted to curse her and never see her again as he’d wished, but obviously he couldn’t even have _that_ because she did end up saving his life. He may owe her a life debt, but he would never bring it up to her so long as he lived, not _ever_.

Then Geralt went and foolishly tied her fate to his, the utter _twat_. 

He had fallen in love with her despite Jaskier’s warnings because he never fucking listened to him and now, _now_ , Jaskier had to watch them do their toxic dance over and over again. He had to watch Geralt be infatuated with someone else, had to see firsthand how badly _this_ rejection hurt.

The thought of his heart being broken during his whole ordeal with the Countess de Stael only caused him to laugh now. That had been nothing compared to this; a measly nudge compared to a full blown punch. This heartbreak cut deep into his very essence, breaking it up until it was nothing at all, and Jaskier was sure that a piece of him had died when he watched Geralt and Yennefer through that broken window. 

Jaskier wanted to hate her, but how could he when Geralt loved her?

—

Jaskier couldn’t sleep. 

He and Geralt had stopped in a town just outside of Aedirn, both of them too exhausted after having travelled for days on end. The inn had been practical, and Geralt had been the one to suggest it instead of camping, so who was Jaskier to refuse such a kind offer?

Except he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t fathom closing his eyes and letting himself succumb to sleep when—

When. That’s the thing isn’t it? They're so close to the place where Jaskier had been convinced Geralt had died, only to find him in the embrace of another. He hadn’t even tried to find him after Jaskier left; he doesn’t even know if he’d have cared if Jaskier hadn’t found _him_ a few months later. 

It’s a dangerous thought process because Jaskier knew the things Geralt went through trying to save him from his misfortune. How he rode through the night to get Jaskier help, how he begged Yennefer with anything if she’d just help him. He knew Geralt cared about him, just not enough for it to mean anything special. The witcher took it upon himself to help anyone in need, never being able to say no to anyone who was truthful in their ways of asking. Geralt probably saw him as another one of those lost causes, only he’s sadly found he’s unable to rid himself of him. 

No. That’s not true either. He’s not an idiot, he could tell when his mind was playing evil tricks on him. 

Jaskier sighed, shifting in the bed. Geralt hadn’t moved since he’d laid down, his back to him, and Jaskier couldn’t _sleep_. 

Is this what Geralt had felt like when they’d found the djinn? Afraid of the nightmares that would plague him if he allowed himself some peace?

Jaskier took a breath, then spoke softly, his words quiet. “I thought I lost you, you know. The last time we were near this place. I almost died and the only thing I could think about after all of that was that I’d never see you again. Never see you talk to Roach, never see you trying not to laugh at my charming jokes, never see _you_.

“And I remember thinking to myself: who am I without you? Jaskier the bard wouldn’t be Jaskier the bard without songs about you.” Jaskier huffed a breath of a laugh. “It’s—I know it’s cretinous, you don’t need to tell me. I promised Chiradean—the elf who tried to help me, you remember?—I promised him I’d write you the best song so people would remember you and that I would sing it for as long as my voice would let me.” 

Jaskier sighed, closing his eyes. “Haven’t done that yet, I don’t think. All these songs about you and none of them seem to really embody what you mean to me. I just. I thought I’d _lost you_.”

There were tears building behind his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn’t let himself have an even bigger moment of weakness; what a coward he is, not being able to say this to Geralt’s face. 

“I’d already started composing before I even saw you had lived. _The call of the White Wolf is loudest at dawn, the call of a stone heart is broken and alone, born of Kaer Morhen, born of no love, the song of the White Wolf is cold as driven snow,_ ” Jaskier hummed tiredly, opening his eyes. Geralt hadn’t stirred. “I never ended up finishing it. You found love though, I think.” 

Jaskier debated getting up and going to keep Roach company in the stables instead of feeling sorry for himself. She’d likely be a better listener to his very perilous issues, too.

“I can’t sleep,” Jaskier admitted. He moved into a sitting position carefully, not wanting to wake his friend. “I understand your struggle that day now. I don’t blame you. I’d long since forgiven you, even if there was nothing to forgive, really, but I know you must blame yourself, self-deprecating as you are. The pain the djinn caused was nothing compared to thinking I’d lost you.” 

Jaskier gasped when Geralt reached toward him from behind, hand landing on his back and burning him like a fucking brand. 

“I’m here.” 

—

By the time Jaskier found him, Geralt was already on his way out of town, Roach’s reins in his hands. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” Jaskier called, loud enough to attract attention. He saw Geralt stop, glancing upward at the sky ever so slightly as Jaskier jogged over, the drama queen that he was. “Not even a hello! How have you been, Jaskier! Oh, I’ve been alright, Jaskier! Thanks for caring, Jaskier! Come to think of it, _have_ you ever asked me how I’m doing?”

Geralt tilted his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. “How have you been, Jaskier?” 

“Oh, you think you’re so clever, so humorous,” Jaskier huffed, but his responding grin gave him away. “I’ve been good. You, though! Now this is an interesting turn of events finding you here. Of all places, I didn’t think I’d spot you in Sodden.” 

“Hm.” 

“Yes, yes, contracts are everywhere, can’t rule it out.” Jaskier answered as if Geralt gave him valuable information. He sobered up just so, holding himself back from clapping Geralt on the shoulder. “I am glad to see you, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded, starting a steady pace for Roach to walk again, this time with Jaskier following. “I’m glad to see you’ve survived another winter on your own.”

“I don’t always need you to protect me,” Jaskier scarcely avoided stepping in a puddle. “I have a dagger to threaten people with.” 

“Very poorly.” Geralt said. Jaskier couldn’t stop the affronted sound that passed his lips. “Oxenfurt still as pretentious as I remember, bardling?”

“I truly hate your idea of small talk, you know! Insulting my city like that, as if—well, it doesn’t matter, I forgive you. And anyway,” Jaskier continued much louder when he saw Geralt visibly roll his eyes. “I didn’t stay in Oxenfurt this year.” 

“No?” Geralt gave him a sidelong glance, watching Jaskier shake his head in confirmation that he’d heard right. “Some paramour of yours then?”

Jaskier shook his head again. “Not since the Countess de Stael left me, I’m afraid.” he sighed, then reached behind him to pat his lute. “I’ve learned my lesson. No, I stayed at the Cintran court this time, as their _court bard_.” 

Geralt stopped again, long enough to mount Roach to Jaskier’s utter dismay. He liked it when Geralt kept pace with him on the ground, but he’ll digress. He’ll settle for anything Geralt gave him. 

“I find it hard to believe Calanthe would want to hear your warbling all winter.” 

“Hmph, rude, awful witcher! Absolutely horrid. One of these days you’ll genuinely end up hurting my feelings.” Jaskier whined, peering up at him with a pout. “Calanthe liked me enough, even called me enjoyable once or twice throughout my stay which, coming from her, I think is quite the compliment.”

Geralt chuckled, kicking his heels on Roach’s side and urging her into a trot. Oh, how cruel, how unfair. He’s not even wearing the right footwear for this.

“It was princess Pavetta who got the most out of the dulcet tones you so easily insult!” Jaskier said, no real offense to it, watching Geralt promptly slow down for Jaskier to catch up to him.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared ahead deep in thought. Jaskier expected as much; it’s not everyday that you hear about your best friend seeing the mother of your child surprise again. 

“Is she well?” Geralt asked quietly. Jaskier saw the tension he held in his shoulders, the barely concealed concern in his iridescent eyes when he looked down at him, and his eyes softened.

That had been the entire point of his visit, really—to check on Geralt’s child surprise for him. It was one thing for the witcher to completely ignore the little girl’s existence and act as though Destiny hadn’t bound him to her, but Jaskier couldn’t do it, not for his own peace of mind. He needed to know she was okay, and he’s sure Geralt will be grateful for it. 

And to be fair, for a four year old, little Cirilla was a delight to be around. Jaskier would hold the memory of her high pitched giggling while he sang close to his heart.

“She’s very well,” Jaskier assured him, emphasizing his words in the hopes that the double meaning shined through. “Quite happy, if you ask me. My ever melodious and soothing voice helped them sleep through the night. Their words, not mine! Bards honour.” 

Jaskier watched the previous tension bleed out of Geralt’s shoulders, his gaze breaking from his and becoming fixated ahead again. 

“Good.”

—

It was Jaskier’s idea to go through Lettenhove and stay at his childhood home, but it wasn’t because he wanted to. 

Geralt needed to take the fastest route to Temeria, both Yennefer _and_ Triss supposedly asking him for help through the xenobox Yennefer had given Geralt. Whatever the problem was it was clearly urgent, though not urgent enough for a portal, and Jaskier figured he could swallow his pride and festering anger for a night. 

So, he offered. He smiled and told him that cutting through Lettenhove would save them time, and Geralt agreed reluctantly, probably smelling the unease on Jaskier’s skin. 

They couldn’t even stay at an inn because everyone _knew_ Jaskier here, would mention it to his parents like the only good gossip these people have gotten in years. His parents wouldn’t hesitate to hunt him down like an unfortunate soldier on a battlefield, too late to realize that they weren't cut out for battle. Because at the end of the day, Jaskier couldn’t fight them—not anymore. He’d long since given up on them, and they should have done the same

A loss he could never quite get over.

Either way, Jaskier sent word to them about staying a night, and they’d eagerly accepted.

“I have to warn you, Geralt,” Jaskier said as they approached the gates of his childhood home. “I may not be myself here.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, nodding his head slowly. He urged Roach forward with a click of his heels, and Jaskier took a breath to brace himself for this reunion. 

And then the gates were opening, revealing his ever eager cousin. 

“Julian!” Ferrant de Lettenhove called out to them, waving his hand ostentatiously. They approached him, Geralt on Roach and Jaskier on foot, both of them weary. “It looks as though you’ve been travelling for days, dearest cousin.”

“Well, that would be because I have been, cousin mine.” Jaskier imitated the false cheer, leaning into the others hug. Once they pulled away, he looked up at Geralt. “Geralt, this is Ferrant de Lettenhove. Ferrant, this is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.” 

“Ah, yes. I have heard the stories being told about you, though I was skeptical of you being real. I’ve never met a witcher in the flesh.” Ferrant replied, his voice tinged with fear. How pretentiously ignorant, Jaskier internally seethed. 

“Here I am,” Geralt said, completely deadpan “In the flesh.” 

Jaskier bit back a surprised chuckle. 

Ferrant stumbled over his next words, the next few minutes a flurry of movement; they’d put Roach in the stables, and Jaskier had gone straight to Pegasus, a white gelding he’d claimed and helped raise, gently nuzzling his neck and allowing himself a brief moment of relief that he was still _alive_ before Ferrant was leading them away and over to the threshold of Jaskier’s nightmares. 

“Shouldn’t you be in Kerack?” 

“I’m only visiting,” Ferrant assured. “This is simply coincidental timing.” 

The house is just as Jaskier remembered it: vacant and too much all at once. It still felt like a prison meant to confine him to this life and this lifestyle for the rest of his days. The walls were covered in new drapes and paintings, but the sight hadn’t comforted him in the least, his stomach churning with unease. They won’t attempt to get him to stay again, they wouldn't try that when Geralt was with him. They wouldn’t dare it. 

When his parents walked in, dressed in their finest clothing and silks, jewelry perfectly placed, Jaskier wanted to turn and leave. _Please,_ he begged Geralt silently. _Don’t think I’m like them_.

“Oh, _Julian_ ,” his mother greeted him warmly, carefully embracing him and planting a delicate kiss to his cheek. Jaskier’s eyes burned as he blinked. “Welcome home.” 

“Yes, welcome home.” his father repeated warily, reaching out a hand. Jaskier shook it, his hands newly calloused and rough against his father's smooth one. 

They’ve stopped paying attention to him already, Geralt already peeking their curiosity and interest.

“Thank you.” Jaskier said, then cleared his throat. “Geralt, may I introduce you to the Count and Countess de Lettenhove. Mother, father, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.” 

“A pleasure.” Geralt didn’t bow, would never bow to them if he could tell how much Jaskier despised being here. 

“The pleasure is all ours,” the Countess smiled forcefully, teeth showing. “Julian didn’t mention a witcher accompanying him.” 

“It’s Jaskier now, mother,” Jaskier wanted to cringe at how small his voice sounded. “And I mentioned my friend. Geralt is that friend. His profession doesn’t matter.” 

“Doesn’t it though, Julian?” his father said pointedly. He eyed the lute on his back with a frown on his face.

“No. It doesn’t.” Geralt replied for him, just a semblance of his usual harshness in his voice. Relief washed over him, the words caught in his throat, trapped and screaming to escape.

“I have to disagree—” his father started, but his mother placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “Right.”

“You made it in time for dinner. Would you join us?” his mother asked sweetly, her feigned niceties no doubt obvious to Geralt, too. They couldn’t refuse.

Jaskier smiled. “Of course.” 

“Perfect.” the Countess gestured to a maid. “Show them to their room, please. Put away your, _ahem_ …belongings and head down. Julian, you remember the way, don’t you, darling?” 

It’s hell. He should have known better. This was his very own hell loop and it was hardly song worthy. What utter shite.

Jaskier thanked the maid profusely once they were led to the room in question, apologizing for things out of his control; his parents wouldn’t stop being entitled. These maids would have to deal with them until the Count and Countess were six feet under. 

He closed the door and breathed deeply, sagging against it. His head knocked backwards with a thud, his ears ringing. 

“Bloody fucking hell.” he whispered to himself, rubbing his eyes with his palms. Stars exploded behind his eyelids at the force until Geralt grabbed one of his hands and pulled it back. “Thank you for stepping in back there. Whenever I’m here, I can’t help but regress into silence.” 

“You left.” Geralt said. Jaskier blinked, pursing his lips. 

“Do I look like someone who would stay?” 

“No.” 

There’s no hesitation, no thought to be had. It’s resolute, knowing.

“I didn’t think so,” Jaskier chuckled, closing his eyes. Their hands are still clasped together. “They want me to adhere to my duties as a Viscount. They let me go to Oxenfurt to get my education, but they wanted me to come _back_. I couldn’t. I _wouldn’t._ I left without a word and travelled the Continent instead and then—Posada.” 

“Posada.” Geralt agreed. Then his gaze hardened, looking past him. “Good.” 

Geralt let go of him, backing up to remove his armour, leaving him in his black blouse and leather pants. Jaskier carefully set down his lute too, then looked at the bed. It’s bigger than the ones he and Geralt shared at inns, of course, and Jaskier wished he could skip dinner. It looked as soft as a cloud, and he hadn’t slept in a bed so comfortable in _years._

Jaskier hummed to himself as he busied himself with putting his things away, a soft tune he had written when he was younger. One that spoke of hoping someone would live despite the way they treated the narrator, him—that he’s not angry anymore and that given time, he’d be fine again. It’s a reminder that he’d moved on from this and this situation wasn’t his reality anymore. He was free, he had Geralt and his fame, the vagabond life suiting him much better than the life of a future Count.

“Silence doesn’t suit you.” Geralt said right before Jaskier opened the door, and his hand stopped in mid-air, the quiet, but no less genuine words hiting him like a sucker punch to the gut.

Jaskier took a steadying breath and grinned at him, shrugging in indifference because what else was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? 

He’d remember that the next time Geralt told him to shut the fuck up while he sang the same draft of a line from a song he worked on for the twenty first time in a row. 

Jaskier led them down to the dining area, his smile tight and his heart in his throat. There are all kinds of ways this could go wrong for them. One wrong word from him, and both he and Geralt would be left kicked out of this place, he’s sure of it. His father was already angry with him, and his mother chose indifference, but if it came to it, she’d never defend him. 

Luckily for him, most of dinner was spent speaking with Ferrant about his royal instigator duties. He’s sure it’s done to remind Jaskier of his own priorities in Lettenhove, but he ignored that. He asked questions, answered his own very scarcely when asked, and Geralt stayed mostly silent. 

“Witcher Geralt,” the Countess de Lettenhove drawled the name, sending an unpleasant chill up Jaskier’s spine. “How is it, exactly, that you’ve ended up travelling with Julian?” 

Jaskier had barely had an appetite when he reached the dining hall, his nerves flushing out any forms of hunger from his body. He’d forced his food down as to not seem ungrateful, his parents would never let him hear the end of it otherwise, all ostentatiously higher than thou that they were. And, to their credit, it _was_ delicious—definitely much better than the rabbit or pigeon Geralt usually cooked for them, but now his appetite was as good as gone, nausea taking its place. 

Geralt seemed unbothered, but the minute clenching of his jaw told Jaskier otherwise. “I wanted him to travel with me.”

“Oh?” his father pushed his finished plate away and leaned up on his elbows. “Don’t your lot prefer solitude?” 

“It’s a lonely life,” Geralt said slowly. “I’m glad to have Jaskier with me.” 

Jaskier watched him to feel out this lie, but Geralt doesn’t have any of his usual tells. He always knew when Geralt wasn’t being entirely truthful with him, it was something that, if you looked past the witcher’s gruff exterior, was so effortlessly easy to spot that it was almost laughable. What they didn’t teach at Kaer Morhen evidently turned out to be how to properly tell a lie and get away with it. There isn’t the twitch of his brow or the quick averting of his eyes from his own.

Geralt kept his gaze levelled with Jaskier’s, a silent challenge or an admission that felt too honest despite the bluntness of his words. 

“It’s odd, is all.” his father replied. It’s disapproving enough to get Geralt’s attention back on him. “There is a time for a young man to travel and it’s long since passed. Julian belongs here.” 

Geralt smiled ruefully, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I have to disagree.” 

It’s an echo of his father's earlier words, the dining hall going silent save Ferrant’s choking on his wine. Jaskier gripped his thigh to stop his hands from shaking; he missed his lute. He wanted to play, to sing, to perform—the way the world disappeared when he captivated an audience always calmed him of his worries. 

“Well!” Jaskier said before a full blown argument could start. He pushed his chair back, quickly getting up as it scraped against marble. “We’ve had quite a long day, and I believe it’s time we retire for the evening. Thank you again for the lovely dinner, we appreciate the hospitality more than words can convey.” 

He didn’t need to see Geralt to feel his eyes burning holes into his back. There was a time and place to defy and rebel against his family, to add fuel to this roaring fire, he wanted to growl, but when they needed to get to Yenn and Triss, it could fucking _wait._ Jaskier holding his tongue, stopping his verbal attacks that so often end up saving his life, well, it was a miracle in itself. 

Geralt would understand that. He could stop himself from stoking the fire so senselessly.

“Of course,” his mother said drily. Amazing, both his parents disapprove of him now. Jaskier would laugh if he felt any humour in this situation. “Please do let us know if you require anything, my darling, yes?” 

Jaskier nodded, grabbing at Geralt’s hand to pull him along. He wanted out of there as quick as possible, the idea of never seeing the place again more appealing by the minute. Geralt looked back over his shoulder, not stopping his pace forward with Jaskier.

“He’s not yours to command.” 

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier hissed in warning, shoving him forward. He didn’t move in front of him, but the door was being opened for them. So close.

Maybe his father hadn’t heard.

“If not me then who?” the Count called from his seat at the head of the table, and Jaskier felt his breath catch. No, no, no. Not now. “He’s my son. He’s my only male heir. His pitiful lifestyle isn’t feasible or acceptable for a Viscount, Witcher. You wouldn’t know that, of course, but I’ll educate you on it, nonetheless. His—” 

Geralt cut him off with his signature growl back in his voice. “He belongs to no one but _himself._ You’d do well to remember that, Count _.”_

So close.

It’s only once the two of them are out of the room that Jaskier allowed himself to breathe and center himself. 

“Have you perhaps lost your mind?” Jaskier snapped, letting go of him. He led them down hallways, weaving through them like a wraith that’s been waiting to haunt their childhood home. 

Geralt hummed behind him, and Jaskier whirled to face him, his entire body lighting up with a vicious energy, one that he had no outlet for here. They stop walking, the darkness of the hallway allowing them their privacy for now. 

“I’m serious. They could order you killed for your insolence!” Jaskier raised his voice, taking a step closer. “And I won’t be able to stop it! They hate me. They would do it just to see me suffer, do you understand?”

“They shouldn’t treat you like an object.” Geralt replied, and Jaskier laughed, his emotions running on the edge of manic. 

“That’s what I am to them, you naive witcher. I’m a pawn to be played in their political game. The only thing is,” Jaskier gestured between them, standing so close they were bowing into the others personal space to talk privately amongst themselves. “I’ve clearly rejected it. I’ve removed myself from their game, their careful schemings in my youth gone to complete shit.”

Geralt smiled, genuinely this time. “Where was this bite when they were demeaning you?” 

“Gods. The fact you think I could _ever_ speak to them like that surprises me. Wait, no, I recant that,” Jaskier said, turned on his heels and began to walk away. “You probably had to fight your mentors to the death at Kaer Morhen.”

“Hm, no,” Geralt said behind him, tone light. “I did have to fight him, though. Multiple times. Training.” 

“Oho, now we’re talking. Surely he bested you each time?”

“Bested all of us,” Geralt admitted as Jaskier found their room, throwing the door open for them. 

“Your brothers?” Jaskier asked carefully. He didn’t know much about them, but he’d be blind if he didn’t know Geralt was fond of them. He sat on the bed with a huff, making a dramatic scene of removing his shoes, then continuing on to his clothes. 

Geralt followed his example. “Eskel and Lambert. Not many of us left.” 

Jaskier felt something in his chest snap, the breath in his lungs leaving him in a flurry. Geralt had never mentioned them, not once in their long friendship, just uttered useless information about his brothers being with him for the winter. Of course they would be, Jaskier would want to say, where else would they rather be than home?

“They’re reckless idiots,” Geralt added when Jaskier stayed silent. “They like you. Well, they would if they knew you.”

“Present tense, is it?” Jaskier teased, turning his body so he faced Geralt better. “Ah, don’t try to cover up that slip of the tongue now! You’ve mentioned me then?” 

Geralt clenched his jaw and looked away. “They know of you from your songs. The bard who sings praises about witchers.”

Jaskier wanted to know more, but he also wouldn’t push the other man when it came to this. It’s the first time he’s willingly shared anything about his family; Jaskier wouldn’t take that for granted.

“Well, that _is_ what I do. Mind, I mostly sing about one specific witcher, but I suppose that alone would get me on any witcher’s flattery book.”

“You may sing songs about me,” Geralt said as he got into the bed, turning away so that he faced the door. Always in front of any threat. “But you’ve made things easier for them, too. For any witcher.”

Jaskier tossed off the last of his clothes, neatly folding them because he’s not a barbarian and scrambled to get under the covers. The bed was as comfortable as he expected it to be. He didn’t miss this life of luxury. “That was my goal, wasn’t it?” 

Geralt hummed in reply, but Jaskier heard it as what it was—a _thank you_ left unsaid. Jaskier’s heart swelled up, and he smiled at Geralt’s back before he turned to look up at the ceiling.

“You won’t apologize to them will you?” Jaskier asked the ceiling quietly. 

“No.” 

It’s monotonous, almost as if contemplating the audacity of the very thought. 

“You’re—” Jaskier stopped, chuckling to himself and turning to face the window, leaving them back-to-back. “Thank you.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, always too uncomfortable with showing emotion, but Jaskier appreciated him nonetheless. He slept until dawn broke the horizon, the light of the sun entering their room. Jaskier’s body was used to Geralt’s unsustainable need to leave their camp as early as possible, and this was no different. 

As the two of them prepared themselves to leave, Jaskier slung his lute over his back and gave Geralt a stern look.

“I’ll go down first to fix the chaos you most likely started last night,” he said. “You stay out of it until you don’t hear arguing. There _will_ be arguing, Melitele help me.” 

“You’ll be fine.” Geralt rolled his eyes, and he looked so much more comfortable like this—with his armour and swords back where they belong. 

“Yes, yes. I’ll have you to save me if they lock me in their dungeon,” Jaskier waved him off. He opened the door, looked back over his shoulder. “You will save me, right? Pull off the heist of the century for your best friend?” 

Geralt offered him a small smile and a shrug. Better than nothing, Jaskier supposed and headed down to the dining hall again. 

“Oh, Julian,” his mother greeted. She was already seated, not a hair out of place. Jaskier felt ridiculously improper under her scrutinizing gaze. “You’ve just missed Ferrant. He wishes you luck in your endeavours.” 

“Mm, and I, him.” Jaskier answered with a formal smile, all his nobility lessons running through his mind as he approached the table. “Geralt and I will be leaving soon as well. I wanted to thank you again for allowing us to stay on such short notice.”

“Yes, well, this _is_ your home, Julian,” his father interjected. He popped a grape into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before continuing. “You should stay.” 

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that, father dearest?” 

“Did you block out everything I said last night, son?” he stood up, gesturing around him, at their home. “This is yours. You will be the one in charge here one day soon. I’m only getting older as you prance around the Continent singing your ridiculous songs. You should stay and learn.” 

Jaskier clenched his hands into fists, his eyes narrowing. Their home, not his. “My ridiculous songs are my life. Not this.” 

“Your priorities are askew because of that Witcher,” his father spat. He waved to the lute on his back, taking a step toward him. “Those _songs_ you write about him, as if he has any sort of worth in this world. You are wasting your life, Julian, your _potential_ and for what? For a mutant?”

“For my _friend_.” Jaskier snapped. “You wouldn’t understand that concept, being skeptical of everyone around you. Your own son included.” 

“My skepticism of you doesn’t befall the same category.”

“Doesn’t it? You’d stop at nothing to see me fail just so you could watch me run back to you like a dog with its tail between it’s legs.” 

“Is that not what you did last night? When you so desperately needed a place to stay?” his father raised an inquiring brow, not allowing Jaskier a chance to answer. “Never mind that. Your place is here, at our side. We’ve given you space to explore your supposed _passion_ , but it’s time to come home.”

“How brazen of you to say to one of the most renowned bards you’ll ever have the pleasure of knowing.” Jaskier laughed mockingly, his tongue dry as sandpaper. “You may think me useless, but I’m the one changing the Continent while you rot away in Lettenhove.” 

“Changing the—” the Count laughed nastily, looking over to his wife. “Do you hear him, my love? Do you hear his insanity?” 

“Julian,” his mother made sure to use that pitying tone he hated. He grit his teeth together, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. “You belong here, with us. The witcher will be the death of you.” 

“He may be,” Jaskier agreed reluctantly. “But at least I wouldn’t have any regrets in my life. Can you say the same, mother?” 

She had the decency to look away. Good. Let her think about that, stew in it until it ate her alive. 

“Listen here, boy,” his father said, knocking his knuckles against the table to get his attention. “I don’t care that you’re our poor excuse for a son. You will not speak to her that way.” 

“I won’t, what? Speak the truth?” Jaskier sneered, stepping closer to him. “Who do you bloody think I am? I’m a _bard_ , speaking the truth is my speciality.” 

“You’re a fool who abandoned his family!” his father yelled, reaching for Jaskier’s lute. He took a step back before he could touch it. 

“If I abandon you,” Jaskier said, steel back in his voice and his spine, standing straighter instead of cowering away. “You _will_ know it. You’ll feel the loss in your life like a phantom limb. The itch will drive you mad, but you’ll never be able to reach it again. Understand me, old man? It’s very, _very_ important to me that you do.” 

“Watch your _tongue—_ ” Before the Count could hit him, Jaskier was sidestepping him and grabbing his wrist, quick as a viper. He always knew Geralt’s self defense lessons would come in handy. 

Jaskier tightened his grip. “Next time you ever so much as _think_ about raising a hand against me, I’ll fucking cut it off.” 

And to his surprise, Jaskier _meant_ it. His father had always used violence to silence him; stop talking so much, Julian; this will teach you to not do that, Julian; stop calling yourself Jaskier, it’s not the name I gave you, Julian; _singing_ doesn’t befit a Viscount, Julian—

“Look at him, threatening me. We raised him and this is what we got,” his father yanked his hand away and sat back down. “I do hope the witcher is worth it. I hope that when we die, you realize the way you’ve wasted your life away.” 

“He has nothing to do with why I left.” 

“So you say,” his mother sighed. “But he’s the reason you won’t return.”

“No. I have a life that doesn’t imprison me in Lettenhove,” Jaskier corrected, clenching his jaw to bite back the harsher words waiting to be told. This fight would never end with them understanding and seeing eye to eye. “I won’t argue this point with you anymore. Enjoy the rest of your day. Geralt and I bid you farewell.”

“ _Ju_ lian—”

Pompous diplomacy never was his strong suit.

“That,” Jaskier cut his mother off angrily, subtly shaking his head as the last ounce of respect for them left his body. “Is not my name. Not anymore.”

When he stepped out of the room, he found Geralt already waiting for him. Geralt nodded, and Jaskier let his shoulders relax out of their tense state, the entire conversation completely irrelevant in the face of what they actually came here for.

“Let’s go.” 

Geralt didn’t mention the conversation or what exactly he’d heard, but Jaskier figured the fact he went into the family stables and took Pegasus for him to ride meant he felt somewhat responsible for it, even if he would never admit it. He’ll keep saying it’s to get there quicker, to cover more ground together, averting the truth until even he forgot about it. Jaskier didn’t care.

They make it to Temeria on time.

—

“Tell me something about you,” Jaskier said, on the verge of begging as they sat in the corner of the tavern, waiting for their food. They hadn’t done this in a while, relaxed and ate food that didn’t taste charred by fire, and Jaskier was going to milk it for all that it’s worth. “Something you haven’t told anyone else. Big, strong witcher like you must have many a story about—anything!” 

And okay, fair, Jaskier may be a little bit tipsy off his drink. Geralt was indulging him tonight whether he liked it or not. Jaskier saw Geralt purse his lips thoughtfully, as if actually considering it. It’s ridiculous, he’s a ridiculous witcher, he could tell Jaskier anything at all and he’d still look at him as if he’d put every single constellation into the sky himself. 

“Like what?” 

“Anything. Anything at all. Come now, Geralt, I know you have _something_ for me. Just a small, little thing.” 

“Dryads and elves call me Gwynbleidd.”

Jaskier gave Geralt his best unimpressed glare. “Well, I know that already, you oaf. I crossed Brokilon to see you, remember? Almost got an arrow through the head? _Multiple_ arrows, actually! I would very much not like a repeat performance of that, by the way!” 

“I remember,” Geralt smiled. For the most part, he looked calm and collected, not his usual glare-y self while in public. Jaskier knew that the noises got to be too much for his senses sometimes and it made him less than approachable. “They liked your singing.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Jaskier said, pointing a finger to his chest. “ _I’m_ the best bard this Continent’s ever seen. Don’t even try to deny it, you don’t know shit about true bardic talent.”

“Don’t I?” Geralt said, a teasing glint in his eyes. His hand rested on the table, wrapped around his own ale. “I’ve attended a few of your lectures.” 

“Oi, flattery will get you nowhere!” Jaskier paused, drumming his fingers on the table for a beat. “Actually, that’s a lie, it will get you everything, I’m quite easy to please, all things considered. I mean, you know this from—” Jaskier saw Geralt’s mouth twitch. “Oh, I see what you’re doing. Stop trying to change the subject! We’re not talking about me, though I know you _desperately_ want to. We’re talking about _you_.” 

The barmaid chose that moment to interrupt them, placing their food on the table delicately and scurrying away. It always made Jaskier’s blood boil seeing the way people feared Geralt for no other reason besides their prejudices. Geralt wasn’t even doing anything witcher related. In the dark lighting, he even looked like an ordinary man out having a drink with his friend. 

They started eating, the silence an end to the previous conversation, and Jaskier internally groaned at having lost this opportunity to learn something new about Geralt. He’s not the most forthcoming person, obviously, but any chance Jaskier got to listen to tales about his life before he joined him, it lit a creative storm within him. He never performed the songs he wrote out of them, not these ones, so personal and adoring; he didn’t need to expose himself for the fool he is, thank you very much. He wrote them down, hummed their tune to himself, but that’s about it. They lived in his memory, where he could yearn all he wanted, and he preferred it that way. 

“When I was—younger,” Geralt started, leaning forward in his seat and lowering his voice, stilted as his phrase was. Jaskier copied his movements, not wanting the noise of the room to block this out. “I wanted to impress these people. Don’t know why. They’d been talking about aim precision near me.” 

Jaskier lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Geralt to continue. He looked vulnerable, his entire expression so uncharacteristically open that Jaskier felt a little awful about asking. Well, he tried to rationalize, Geralt didn't _have_ to tell him, the conversation had already ended and _he_ picked it back up. 

“Aim precision, yes, truly enthralling as far as topics go,” Jaskier agreed around a mouthful of food. He swallowed, pointing his fork at Geralt. “Did you impress them?” 

Geralt’s lips curved into a smirk. Oh, be still his heart. “No. I tried showing off my witcher senses by hitting a rat with my fork in complete darkness.” Geralt shook his head, gesturing with his own fork for emphasis. “It was a masterful throw, really. But no one saw it because it was in the dark.” 

Jaskier waited a moment to see if Geralt was joking with him, then when no admission came, threw his head back in a laugh. And here he thought Geralt was done surprising him. 

“That’s absolutely brilliant,” Jaskier said once his laughter subsided. He rubbed at his face, smudging away his throwaway tears. “Wow. You’ve left me speechless. I don’t know how you manage it, Geralt, but it is a talent solely you possess.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, focusing back on his food. 

“I’m going to write a song about this,” Jaskier announced cheerily, only to watch the witcher’s head snap up impossibly quick, his teeth bared threateningly. “ _Ooh_ , I love it when you give me your scary face.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned. 

“ _There once was a witcher, so young and so daft—”_

Jaskier didn’t get to finish his jovial sounding lyric, he was too busy avoiding Geralt lunging at him from across the table.

—

There’s pain in his shoulder, where the junction of it met his neck. 

Now, in any other scenario, this wouldn’t be a problem. Jaskier’s quite used to being given love bites by lovers in that very spot—he loved it indefinitely. 

But. Well. The fact he’s been _stabbed_ changed that, didn’t it? 

Blood oozed down his shoulder, pain flaring as Jaskier craned his neck to take in the damage, but he didn’t scream. The adrenaline of the fight was still buzzing in his ears, so he sniffed, only mildly miffed with the fact he’d been stabbed, then raised his dagger himself. 

They’d been jumped on their way back to the small village in Brugge; they had wanted their money, really, and Jaskier _tried_ to inform them that they were rather short on that and they could come to a amicable conclusion to this that didn’t involve violence, but they had other plans. They all went straight for Geralt, assuming if they cornered him they’d be a match for a witcher, but one of them followed Jaskier. 

He attacked the bandit with practiced ease, everything Geralt had taught him about _slashing, not stabbing, it works better_ getting the job done rather quickly. The movements barely hurt, so that had to mean it wasn’t so bad, right? 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said faintly, once he was sure the bandit wasn’t going to get back up. “I seem to have been rudely stabbed, darling.” 

When he turned, Geralt was disarming the last of the bandits, his nostrils flaring angrily. The bandit, terrified at the massacre he’d just witnessed of his friends, turned and ran. It’s cowardly, so spineless of them to flee when _they_ attacked them, but Jaskier couldn’t open his mouth to voice his taunt. 

Geralt tossed the steel sword he’d taken from the bandit to the ground, rushing to Jaskier almost as quick as gravity claiming the sword. 

“Ooh, you’re so fast,” Jaskier swayed on his feet, his shoulder throbbing painfully now. “My heroic witcher. If I die so anticlimactically I’ll be very cross with you.” 

Geralt’s already removing his doublet and tossing his bloodied chemise aside to expose the damage done to his shoulder. Jaskier refused to look this time, the slow drag of his blood running down his arm making him close his eyes. 

“You won’t die, Jas.” Geralt tore some of his shirt, wrapping up the wound tightly. “We need to get back to the village. Now.” 

“You go, I’ll just—” Jaskier stumbled, only being steadied by Geralt’s arm winding around his waist, carefully keeping him upright. “Lay right here until you get back. Don’t be too long, I’d miss you.” 

His mouth wouldn’t stop incriminating him, it seemed. Is it the shock? Jaskier doesn’t usually have a break like this, so it must be. He’d often times been faced with the pointy end of a dagger, it’s relatively ridiculous how he’d never been stabbed before, but the actual act itself had fucked his mind up, muddling it with pain and panicked thoughts.

“You’re coming with me. Come on,” Geralt led him to Roach, who whinnied and snorted with unease, her ears still pressed to her skull. “Roach, it’s okay. Come on, Jaskier, get up.” 

By some miracle or simply witcher strength, they got Jaskier up onto the saddle, Geralt getting on behind him and wrapping his arm around his waist. Jaskier’s heart thundered as they rode, his head lulling backward against Geralt’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. Geralt would catch him if he fell, it would be fine.

“Jaskier, keep your eyes open.” 

“I’m jus’ resting,” Jaskier slurred, his eyes refusing to open. 

Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure if he said it aloud. Maybe he’d just thought it, his conscience begging him to comfort Geralt, to assure him that he was fine, but he doesn’t know.

The last thing he remembered was Geralt’s arm tightening around him as he urged Roach to go faster. 

When he came to with a groan, it was to an aching body, too bright lights, and the smell of lavender and peppermint. He was in a bed, that much was obvious and when he tried to get up, the pain in his shoulder made him hiss involuntarily before an arm gently pushed down on his chest.

“None of that, boy. You stay right where you were,” a woman said, her hair greying at the roots, but still with a touch of auburn. “Yer witcher will skin me alive if you hurt yourself further.” 

“Where—” Jaskier looked around the room, suddenly too small and stuffy for his liking. His feet tingled with the urge to move, to walk, his body tensing up as if he were in danger. “Where is he?” 

He wouldn’t have left him here. Geralt could self flagellate all he wanted when Jaskier wasn’t around to stop those thoughts from getting too harsh, but he wouldn’t drop Jaskier off at a local healer and _leave_ because of one mishap. 

Before the healer could reply, the door to the room shot open, a pent up Geralt walking through, his expression schooled into a scowl. His mere presence washed Jaskier in relief, his body relaxing back into the bed and a slow smile spreading on his lips.

“Ah, Geralt, we were just talking about you.”

“No, we weren’t,” the woman said drily, reaching over to grab a glass and hand it to him. Geralt had moved so that he was beside Jaskier. “Drink.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt's eyes shone as he looked down at him, unsure what to do with his hands. There’s a piece of hay resting on his shoulder. “You’re okay.”

The way Geralt said it… Jaskier could feel his breath catch slightly, and he’d blame it on his shoulder pain if anyone asked, but the concerned crease in Geralt’s brow felt like he’d been doused with cold water. Geralt had worried about him. 

“Of course! No bandit will ever best me, dearest, I’m far too cunning for that,” Jaskier said after he’d taken a sip of whatever the fuck the woman had given him. Clearly, if Geralt hadn’t growled at her, she could be trusted. “I wondered where you were, but I should have suspected you were out feeding Roach and Pegasus while pestering stablemen trying to do their jobs. You’re far too predictable.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, taking the seat next to the bed. Jaskier’s heart stuttered at the idea of the man watching over him. “You don’t know me that well, bard.”

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier scoffed, eyes filled with mirth as he plucked the stray piece of hay off his shoulder and waved it around like a prize. Then he turned to the woman, whose eyes watched them with a wisdom behind them that unsettled Jaskier. It’s as though she knew something he didn’t, and he didn’t like it. “Now, introduce me to my lovely healer, you brute! Where are your manners?” 

Geralt’s lips twitched, his arms crossing over his chest as he gestured with his head. “Sheila.”

“An absolute pleasure,” Jaskier said sincerely, offering her a kind smile. “Thank you. For helping me. Us.”

“Aye, don’t ye worry about it, lad.” Sheila waved him off, wiping her hands down her apron. “I’ll leave you two be. Don’t strain your shoulder! I canny imagine how hard that will be for you, bard, but I mean it.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour, my lady.” Jaskier promised, waiting until she was out of the room to turn his head and look down at his bandages. “How bad? Will it scar? Be honest, I can take it.” 

“Yeah,” Geralt said, and Jaskier sighed, resigning himself to pouting like a child who didn’t get the gift they had wanted. “It’s not that bad.”

“Well,” Jaskier announced after a beat, grinning slyly at Geralt. “It could have been worse! And now I know what it feels like to be stabbed. I don’t recommend it, though I would definitely wish this on my worst enemies, nay, one abhorrent person in particular.”

Geralt chuckled beside him, his hand reaching out and brushing Jaskier’s hair out of his eyes. Jaskier watched him, the smile never leaving his face as Geralt drew his hand back, his own amusement clear. Jaskier wanted to tell him so many things; that it wasn’t his fault, that he was okay, that it was thanks to his lessons that he managed to survive, but they all caught in his throat when Geralt locked his eyes with his own. 

“This will be my next ballad,” Jaskier murmured through numb lips. “The Bard that protected the Wolf.” 

“I took on most of them.”

“Irrelevant,” Jaskier ached to touch him and make sure he was real. He yawned, his eyelids drooping. “People will weep at its beauty.” 

“I’m sure. Rest now.” Geralt said, his voice impossibly soft, and Jaskier would have to be a fool not to obey, his eyes already slipping all the way shut.

And the funny thing wasn’t that he’d do anything Geralt asked of him, no. It was that he could have sworn that he felt the featherlight press of lips against his forehead and the ghost of a touch against his jaw before unconsciousness took hold of him. 

It must have been his imagination.

—

“Oh, you poor idiotic bard,” Yennefer said, apropos of nothing. “You love him.” 

Jaskier barely flinched. “Of course. He is my best friend after all.” 

It’s been months since the last time Jaskier saw her. Geralt went off with her here and there, but they always parted ways before Jaskier and Yennefer could talk. It’s better that way; all they did was spew venomous words at one another. For the most part, it’s fun. Jaskier did love a good verbal rivalry, his words _were_ his weapon after all and Yennefer, for all her scary magical promiscuity, matched him without lifting a finger—except once, when Jaskier had presumably tested her patience.

This shouldn’t be different. They should be attacking with the goal of hurting, not speaking such honest truths that weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. 

Jaskier had been sitting in a booth waiting for a barmaid to bring him his breakfast—it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to be up before Geralt. There are times when he’s restless, has a song he can’t get out of his head and it refused to allow him to sleep. This was one of those nights, only he didn’t have the words for it. He couldn’t get the words for it. He tried and tried, but nothing _worked_. 

The curse of the poet, not having the words he wanted when he needed them. 

“Don’t pretend to misunderstand me, it’s not like you. You _love_ him,” Yennefer doesn’t sit, too dignified to even offer him that. “It’s a shame.”

“Why?” Jaskier demanded, glaring up at her. He doesn’t bother denying it. “Why is it a shame? You should feel _privileged_ to get the opportunity to do it thoroughly, witch.” 

“There you are, vicious flower.” Yennefer smiled. “Still got your poison ready despite your brooding.” 

Jaskier turned his nose up at her. “Brooding? I resent the insinuation. I don’t _brood_ , it would give me wrinkles—ah!” he waved a hand at her. “Don’t say anything about my crows feet or I may stab someone out of a horrible need to prove I’m _not_ old.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you would do?”

“You bring out the feral part in me.” 

“A compliment.” she mused, a thoughtful expression on her beautiful face. Jaskier wanted to hate her, gods he _tried_. He couldn’t, he liked her far too much, though he’d never willingly admit it. When the bloody hell did that happen? She seemed to come to a decision as he had his existential crisis, her gaze hardening as it focused on him. “I’ll offer you a piece of free advice, bard, so listen closely. Move on. A witcher as hard headed as ours lives a long, long life. Geralt would never try and cage you into spending the rest of your fleeting years with him when he won’t get to spend the rest of his with you.”

Jaskier swallowed down his anger, the fire licking at his throat receding. There was no malice in Yennefer’s voice, just genuine concern and that small dash of pity that she always used when she insulted him, as if she were so bloody superior. 

“Is this something he told you or are you poorly attempting to drive me away?” Jaskier dared to ask, his heart quickening in his chest when the sorceress visibly clenched her teeth in offense. 

He wouldn’t put it past her to curse him again. After taking away his voice for an hour that one time, Jaskier had learned his lesson.

She didn’t grace him with a reply, just a final look over. “Move on. It’ll save you from the heartbreak you're destined for if you continue pathetically yearning for him like this.” 

When she walked away, magic rippling around her like sparks on her way out, Jaskier didn’t stop her.

She’d given him a gift wrapped in that insult, somehow, and he’d rejected it.

—

It’s not the first time Jaskier had refused the advances of both men and women after a successful night of playing. Sometimes his heart just wasn’t in it, the way he loved everyone around him so freely taking a toll on what was real and what wasn’t.

What’s real was that he loved Geralt, but Geralt didn’t love him. It was simple, deductive logic. Anybody could guess it by glancing at them and watching the witcher glare at him for something or other. And he wouldn’t lie, it hurt—the very thought making him want to sink away from this world and into the warm embrace of something greater than this, but it wasn’t like him to give up. 

So, he drank, and flirted, and danced, but when it was time to accept the mischievous offers whispered into his ear, Jaskier had to take a breath and reassess what he needed for himself in that moment. Most times, he felt fine with it, enthusiastic even, his old tendencies emerging like an old friend. He would signal to Geralt that he’d be staying after his set and that was that. Other times, not unlike nights like this one, when he’s alone and wasn’t thinking of _just_ himself, Jaskier had to thank them and be on his way. 

It’s odd, he thought, finding his way back to his and Geralt’s room easily. There hasn’t been a time when he didn’t think of Geralt before leaving on his endeavours, either. Geralt and Yennefer disappear for hours upon hours when Jaskier was unfortunate enough to be in Geralt’s company when they bump into each other, but Geralt never gave him the same courtesy. He didn’t know if they were fucking or hunting something or whatever it is that sorceresses needed help with. 

That had to mean, very simply, that Geralt didn’t care. He knew and yet he didn’t care. How very befitting for a witcher, so cold and emotionless as the rumours say. Yennefer may be right after all.

Geralt was still awake when Jaskier came in, his back to him as he focused on sharpening one of his swords. 

“Bit late for that, don’ya think?” Jaskier slurred, losing his previous composure and almost tripping over his feet. 

“Not going to give personal performances tonight?” Geralt asked instead of answering, turning toward him. His lips were upturned slightly, an amused glint in his golden eyes. 

Jaskier cleared his throat, attempting to blink away the haze from his mind. “Would rather give one to you. A personal performance.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that, setting the sword down by the window carefully. His armour was on the ground next to it, unusually far from his pack. Whatever the reason for that was he didn’t know, but Geralt acting confused by his statement had his mind racing.

“No, no, no,” Jaskier said, walking over to him and poking him in the chest boldly. “Don’t give me that look. You _must_ know.”

Geralt doesn’t reply, but the guilty furrow of his brow appeared, a beacon of emotion for someone like him. It’s _odd_ how Jaskier could differentiate the different expressions, but then again maybe not so much—he’s _in love_ with Geralt. He noticed the little things, the little quirks even witchers had. 

“ _No,”_ Jaskier snapped, anger rising and simmering just below his tongue, waiting to be unleashed. “Don’t play me for a fool. Don’t _insult me_ and act like you didn’t know!” 

Geralt sighed. “Jaskier—”

It’s the pitying tone that set him off. The same one that everyone always used with him when they thought him an idiot, a useless minstrel. Geralt might as well have spat in his face and told him he was pandering to the masses. 

“You _knew_. You knew all this time and didn’t say anything. _Why_?” Jaskier asked, his voice breaking on the last word despite how hard he was trying to stay neutral. His earlier drunken high had completely vanished, a sad filled hangover awaiting him in the very near future. “Why would you torture me like that? Why would you allow me to helplessly _pine_ for _so long_ and not give me the chance to move on? I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense. What kind of motive could you have had? Did you set out to break my heart?” 

Yennefer may have been right. That selfish, all empowering, sometimes helpful sorceress. Jaskier should have heeded her warning. 

“I don’t think you really want to do this,” Geralt told him slowly. His hand closed around his upper arm, gently trying to lead him to the bed. “Go to bed, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier stayed where he was, digging his heels in and tipping his chin upward. “You pity me, then. That must be it. Say it, Geralt. I want to hear it coming from you, personally. Go on, say how you feel for once in your life!” 

“I don’t pity you,” Geralt looked revolted with the insinuation. “I didn’t think it was something that needed discussing.” 

“You didn’t think—you’re a fucking _idiot_ ,” Jaskier said viciously, grabbing a fistful of Geralt’s blouse. “You stupid fucking witcher. Why do I even bloody bother? I love you, and you think it’s _trivial_!” 

“I—”

“What did you think?” Jaskier seethed, eyes swimming as he blinked back his hurt. “Because I slept around and sang ballads of my exploits I was adequately satiated? That this wasn’t important to me?”

“No.” 

“I gave you so many chances to come to me and clear the air, you could probably _smell_ my desire with your witcher senses, couldn’t you?” Jaskier didn’t give Geralt a chance to reply. “That wretched woman was right. I should have fucking ran when I had the chance. Tell me, is it really because I’m human?”

“ _Stop. Talking.”_ Geralt growled, trying to move away, a frightened animal being caged. Jaskier’s grip didn’t falter, the irony completely lost on him.

“Oh, no. No. Don’t try to scare me, I _know_ you.” Jaskier pulled him closer. Geralt came to him, didn’t even try to stop himself. “I know you. _Tell me_.” 

It’s desperate now. They’re close enough to be breathing each other’s air, their lives already so joined together and forever changed because of the other. Their history together meant more to Jaskier than anything else; he’d do anything to know that it meant something to Geralt, too. 

Geralt breathed, a beat passing between them that felt like a century, a _lifetime_. “You know me, Jas.”

It’s as close to a confession as Jaskier will ever get.

Jaskier leaned in and kissed him first; it’s sloppy and too rough, teeth knocking together from the momentum of Jaskier’s eagerness. They pulled back almost as soon as it happened, both breathing deeply, and Jaskier had the horrific thought that Geralt would leave. 

He didn’t. Geralt stayed, lifting his hand to the side of Jaskier’s neck, his thumb brushing against his cheekbone. It’s so tender and sweet, a gesture Jaskier himself has used with so many others that it melted him into Geralt’s arms. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered reverently, a promise and a command in the name.

They came together again, Jaskier’s tongue licking at the seam of Geralt’s lips until the other parted them for him. It sent a shock down his spine, grabbing at Geralt’s hand lying limply by his side, afraid he’ll break Jaskier if he so much as moved the wrong way, he knew, and winding it around his own waist. The heat of his palm tore through his clothes, Jaskier’s free hand cupping Geralt’s cheek gently before moving to his hair; impossibly soft and tangled all the same like it always was. 

Geralt tasted _divine,_ a soft, vindicated moan rising in his throat; like herbs he’d gathered for the potions he’d made while Jaskier played and the ale he couldn’t stop himself from having. It’s a mix that drove Jaskier mad, his heart thrumming against his chest so loudly it was likely producing a song for his witcher. Geralt broke the kiss to nose idly at Jaskier’s neck, and he gasped at the light nip to his throat, the idea of Geralt _marking_ him almost bringing him to his knees.

They moved back into the other, a wave drawn to shore during a storm, and Jaskier bit down on Geralt’s lip as he pulled back again. This close, almost pressed together, Jaskier could hear the slight hitch of breath from Geralt, the way his pupils were dilated, lust and something _primal_ in his cat eyes. And oh, how Jaskier _wanted_ and now he could finally _have_. The hand still fisted in Geralt’s shirt led him to the bed with purpose, the only goal in mind to push him down on it. 

Geralt fell back as gracefully as a witcher who was allowing himself to be manhandled could, his silver locks splaying around him. Jaskier appreciated his self restraint; it made him grin, a wide, almost wicked thing before reaching up to remove his doublet. It’s already fallen from his shoulders when Geralt’s rough voice spoke again.

“Jaskier,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “We need to stop.”

Jaskier froze, his smile falling. His chemise was halfway undone, his dexterous fingers wrapped around one of the buttons. 

“Why?” 

He watched Geralt’s throat work. “We can’t.”

“Are you doing this under some twisted sense of obligation toward _her?_ Because I assure you, witcher mine, she is not going to care.” Jaskier stepped closer, his hands at his sides again. “Don’t tell me to stop.” 

_I wouldn’t be able to bear it,_ he doesn’t say.

Geralt stopped his hand from moving toward him before Jaskier even finished his sentence. 

“No.” Geralt said, glaring up at him. The gentleness is gone from his voice, replaced with a harshness that seemed misplaced. “Stop it. This is a mistake.” 

Jaskier’s head jerked in astonishment, almost as if he’d been smacked. “A mistake.” 

Geralt clenched his jaw and got up, his swords more important than Jaskier. 

Jaskier would always be second to someone or something when it came to Geralt. Every time.

“A mistake,” he murmured to himself again, tasting the bitter words. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.” 

“It’s not the right time to—” Geralt put on his armour, strapped his sword to his back. He locked his eyes with Jaskier’s, no remorse in them. “You’re _drunk_.”

It’s an excuse, Jaskier knew. He still let Geralt leave without a fight. He let Geralt take the shattered pieces of his heart with him.

—

They don’t talk about it.

They never bring it up again.

Jaskier forced himself to bear it like one of Geralt’s many scars.

It’s for the best.

—

“You did _what_?” Nenneke said slowly, enunciating each word dangerously as she bandaged Geralt’s mangled abdomen. 

Geralt pretended not to hear her, the idiot, only earning him a slap on the shoulder from the priestess.

“Oh, darling Nenneke, do please continue asking him about his idiocy,” Jaskier said, delighted. He had his quill in one hand, a spare piece of parchment a priestess in training had given him in his other. “He’s giving you more details than I could ever hope to dream of.” 

Nenneke scowled over her shoulder at him. “Shut your trap, Dandelion.”

“You wound me almost as badly as Geralt,” Jaskier pouted, then perked up. “Would you nurse me back to health? Or one of your lovely trainees? I shan’t object to being in your care. I’d prefer—”

“If your bard doesn’t shut up, I’ll make him swear to a vow of silence myself.” Nenneke warned Geralt, who only _chuckled_ without so much as a wince. Witcher healing, truly marvellous.

“Uh, Geralt?” Jaskier aimed a glare at him, not turning away when amber eyes flickered over to him. “You’re a right bastard sometimes. Nenneke threatened me! My livelihood!” 

Geralt rolled his eyes at his theatrics. “Serves you right.”

“Serves me—” Jaskier stopped, looked down at his hand thoughtfully. “It’ll serve me right when I gouge your eyes out with my _quill_ , you heathen!”

“I’d love to see you try, bard.”

“Show some gratitude, _witcher._ Need I remind you who managed to give you the right potion to stop you from outright bleeding out _and_ rode all night to get your sorry arse here?”

“Will you two quit your bickering?” Nenneke stood, crossing her arms to look even more condescending. “Explain, witcher. Or next time I’m throwing you out of my temple onto your hide.”

That got a smile out of them both; Nenneke would never deny them entry to the temple of Melitele. She wouldn’t deny _anyone_ entry, her kindness and need to help literally everyone always so evident.

Well, she hadn’t told him and Geralt to fuck off yet, even when they kept on coming back, so her self restraint truly was the thing of legends. 

“They told me it was a griffin,” Geralt repeated. “I went in thinking it was so.” 

“And it wasn’t a griffin, was it?” Nenneke asked, patience wearing thin as her tone turned hard. 

Geralt closed his eyes. “It was an archgriffin. I underestimated it, and its claws got me in the stomach.” 

At the silence that followed, Geralt opened one eye. Nenneke glared down at him like a woman out for vengeance, her nostrils flaring angrily.

“I’m going to _murder you_.”

“Ha!” Jaskier cried triumphantly.

“ _Shut your trap, Dandelion!_ ”

It would have scared him out of his wits, having Nenneke turn her motherly anger onto him, but he caught Geralt’s eye over her shoulder. The witcher was smiling, the priestess yelling at him seemingly itching a spot he’d long since given up trying to reach, and really, Geralt hadn’t smiled genuinely in so long. Between the stress of, well, fighting to _survive_ , he figured he could cut Geralt some slack.

Even so, when Jaskier raised his hands in surrender, stuttering out his most sincere apology so Nenneke wouldn’t actually kill him too, Geralt had caught his eye and mouthed _ha!_ with such a shit eating grin on his face that Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock mid-apology. 

Emotionless witchers—what a load of absolute bollocks.

—

It’s the wolf medallion that caught Jaskier’s eye. Well, actually, it’s the callous muttering of a witcher being around to help with the ghoul problem that tipped him off. That, mixed in with the fact Jaskier had never met another witcher besides Geralt before, and he’s got a very interesting concoction in his reach.

Jaskier watched the witcher closely from his spot in the tavern, his desire to walk up to him and just ask him his question like he had with Geralt the first time he’d met him not necessarily seeming like a good idea as the witcher sat there, nursing his ale. 

He had been planning to perform, the crowd lively and loud already, but now he had to scrap that idea. If he did, the witcher would leave, and Jaskier wouldn’t even know which brother this is. Geralt always spoke so fondly of them, something in his gravelly voice offering Jaskier comfort that if he’d ever met them they’d get on well.

Well, now is his time to find out.

It felt like hours before the witcher got up to leave, tossing down a few spare coins, quite generously if you’d ask Jaskier, but he followed him out the door nonetheless. It wasn’t his best idea, but the witcher looked like he wanted to be alone in the tavern, and Jaskier couldn’t impose on that. Outside, it’s a different world, technically. Jaskier will figure it out as he goes.

He followed until he turned a corner and lost sight of him. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered to himself. “Where did you go, witcher?” 

He rounded a corner, desperately trying to catch up and not lose him, gods he’s such an idiot, he had _one_ simple task and he’d managed to mess it up. 

Until a strong arm grabbed him and shoved him back against the alleyways wall, a forearm coming to rest at his throat, choking him slightly. Jaskier was once again thankful for his lute’s case because the strength he’d knocked into the wall surely would have cracked the poor, dear thing otherwise.

“Why are you following me?” the witcher asked, his voice _nothing_ like Geralt’s growl. It was almost soft, silvery in ways that Jaskier could never imagine in a witcher.

“Stop choking me, I mean you no harm,” Jaskier’s hand came to try and push the arm away. “I’m actually very fond of witchers!”

The witcher let him go reluctantly, pretending to fix his armour to probably intimidate Jaskier. “Speak. What do you want?” 

This up close, the scars slashing down the witcher's face are gruesome, Jaskier’s heart breaking for whatever this witcher had to deal with when this had happened to him. Though Jaskier himself wouldn’t categorize the scars as ugly, being an avid lover of storytelling making him find the beauty in every single one of them, he still hated to think about the circumstances that led to this.

Subconsciously, he goes through the list of creatures that Geralt told him have claws. 

“Well,” Jaskier rubbed at his throat and puffed up his chest a bit. “I’m Jaskier. I noticed your wolf meda—”

“No way,” the witcher interrupted, eyes lighting up with none other than _glee_. “You’re Geralt’s Jaskier?” 

“I—Excuse me?” 

“You _are_. You’re his famous bard!” the witcher chuckled. Jaskier deflated, completely dumbstruck. “Lambert’s going to be so mad I met you first. I’m Eskel.” 

Geralt’s Jaskier had a nice ring to it, better than _Jaskier’s witcher_. Much more humane.

“I am his bard, I suppose,” Jaskier said sheepishly, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck to give his hands something to do to quell his nerves. They’d wanted to _meet_ him? What the fuck. “I saw your medallion. I wanted to introduce myself, but you seemed put off at the tavern and I didn’t want to make a bad impression, you see. You’re Geralt’s brother! I wanted to do this the right way, without embarrassing him too harshly.” 

Eskel tilted his head to the side, like Geralt does so often. “I noticed. You’re not very good at that.” 

“At what?” 

“Spying,” Eskel elaborated. He was evidently more talkative than Geralt, too. “You’ll have to work on that.”

“Maybe I wanted you to notice me,” Jaskier tried to defend himself. “Besides, you know nothing about me. Maybe I _am_ a spy.” 

Eskel gave him a very doubtful look. “Yeah, sure. And I’m not a witcher.” 

“Very funny. You and Geralt have the same sense of humour at least.”

“ _That’s_ insulting.” Eskel said, then gestured for Jaskier to follow him. “Come on, bardling. Let me buy you a drink. Maybe you can sing a few songs to pay me back.” 

—

“You talk so much,” Geralt had said once, when Jaskier had been rambling and building off of something Geralt told him. “But you never listen.” 

Jaskier had been startled at being interrupted, his hands going to his hips. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly that.” Geralt had shook his head, an almost disappointed look on his otherwise neutral face. 

“You can’t just say things like that then not explain yourself, witcher. It’s arbitrary at best.” Jaskier had snapped,eyes narrowed to slits. 

They had stood blocking the doorway, waiting for the baron to come back with their pay, and Jaskier had been ravenous at the time; maybe that had been why he was nervously rambling. 

“You’re the one who’s a master of the seven liberal arts,” said Geralt, the picturesque figure of unbothered. “Figure it out.” 

Jaskier had gone on another tangent after that, trying to get Geralt to understand how to articulate things without being a cryptic _arsehole, Geralt, really!_

Maybe he should have listened instead.

—

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

The words repeated themselves over and over in his head, the memory of how they sounded and how Geralt looked perfectly etched in his mind's eye for him never to forget. 

What a day, indeed.

The truth was that Jaskier never stood a chance.

Jaskier had loved Geralt first, but Yennefer would be the one to love him last.

—

He watched the fire without letting a single tear drop from his eyes. It’s a feat he’s rather proud of considering he managed to start the fire all on his own, too. 

His heartbreak made for a song that just about started clawing its way out of his throat as he descended the mountain alone. The words to the song he couldn’t find suddenly melted like candle wax along the paper as soon as he’d sat down, his quill in hand and writing as if he would lose the words again if he wasn’t quick enough.

He brought his lute onto his lap, not particularly caring about what creatures were surrounding the forest around him. The numbness of his chest, his _heart_ , told him to do it, to let these emotions out now before they decided to eat him alive and never allow him peace.

_The fairer sex, they often call it_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook_

_It steals all my reason,_

_Commits every treason_

_Of logic, with naught but a look_

Jaskier swallowed, the fleeting thought that Yennefer had warned him still swirling in his head, all these months later.

_A storm breaking on the horizon_

_Of longing and heartache and lust_

_She’s always bad news_

_It’s always lose, lose_

_So tell me love, tell me love_

_How is that just?_

He hoped that Yennefer wouldn’t curse him too badly if she ever heard the song. She couldn’t exactly blame him for hurting, now, could she? She had known that this would happen, the least she could do was allow him this small piece of cathartic lyricism. 

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

Not a bold faced lie, at least. This may yet be the most truthful song he’d ever written, the accuracies astoundingly meticulous.

_Her current is pulling you closer_

_And charging the hot, humid night_

_The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool_

_Better stay out of sight_

He grit his teeth together, his voice breaking along the next line.

_I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting_

He would sing this song, he decided. He would spread the tale across the Continent: the story of how the witcher broke the bard's heart. Years and years from now, when they taught the bloody song at Oxenfurt, they would analyze every fucking word, and they’ll realize that Jaskier had been in love—had been so desperately and catastrophically in love with a witcher so enamoured with a sorceress who brought only trouble and chaos wherever she went. 

And they would _remember_. They would remember how he brought fame upon the White Wolf. That it was _him_ who tried to warn Geralt countless times, only to be tossed aside. 

Jaskier’s legacy would haunt Geralt until the end of his days.

_If this is the path I must trudge_

_I’ll welcome my sentence_

_Give to you my penance_

_Garrotter, jury, and judge_

The song he’d been working on at the beginning of their trip had been about true love, yet morphing it to match his heartbreak and anger somehow made it _better_. Maybe it was always meant to be a lyric about hurt, not comfort; there was nothing _gorgeous_ or _lovely_ about being at someone’s mercy when they’ve wronged you. It was a death sentence to love so much, so earnestly, only to allow them to have the power to manipulate it into something tragic. In any case, this would explain why he couldn’t figure out the way to tune the song a few days ago.

_But the story is this_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_

Yennefer wouldn’t allow this to be a weakness. She’d left Geralt today of her own free will; her strength had been a hundredfold on Jaskier already, that was never in question, but this added an extra layer of resilience to her character. The idea of leaving Geralt before he’d so rudely ended their decades long friendship had never occurred to him, the pain it induced just not worth the thought. 

And yet, here he was. Alone and _wanting,_ gods did he still want, even after all this time, but he could never have. He would never have. He accepted that now, his heart already beginning to heal, infinitely slowly, but still a progress he hadn’t expected. 

Jaskier would take a page out of Yennefer’s book and leave this all behind without so much as a glance backward. He’ll figure out where to go from here, like he always did. If she could turn her hurt into something powerful, then so could he.

He was Jaskier, famous poet, academic and bard; he didn’t need Geralt to be what he was destined for. 

—

The metaphor, it turned out, would land exactly as he’d wanted, not too cerebral at all.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second addition to the series that’ll include After the mountain! I’m hoping to get it done before the new year, so stay tuned. 
> 
> If you’re feeling generous, please drop me a comment! I would love to know what you thought. Or simply leave kudos, that would be amazing, too. 
> 
> twitter: babsisnotsocial  
> tumblr: the-phantom-apprentice 
> 
> Stay safe x


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